GIFT   OF 
V«   Potroosky 


*> 


TURRETS, 

TOWERS,  AND 

TEMPLES 

The  Great  Buildings  of  the  World, 

as  Seen  and  Described  by 

Famous  Writers 


EDITED    AND    TRANSLATED 

By  ESTHER  SINGLETON 

Translator  of 
'The   Music  Dramas    of  Richard  Wagner" 

With  Numerous  Illustrations 


NEW  YORK 

P.  F.  COLLIER  &  SON 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1898 
By  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company 

Copyright,  iqii 
By  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son 


:-':--.   -.  ..  . 


Preface 

IN  making  the  selections  for  this  book,  which  is 
thought  to  be  the  realization  of  a  new  idea,  it 
has  been  my  endeavour  to  bring  together  descrip- 
tions of  several  famous  buildings  written  by  authors 
who  have  appreciated  the  romantic  spirit,  as  well  as 
the  architectural  beauty  and  grandeur,  of  the  work 
they  describe. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  collect  within  the  small 
boundaries  of  a  single  volume  sketches  and  pic- 
tures of  all  the  masterpieces  of  architecture,  and  a 
vast  amount  of  interesting  literature  has  had  to  be 
ignored.  I  have  tried,  however,  to  gather  choice 
examples  of  as  many  different  styles  of  architecture 
as  possible  and  to  give  a  description,  wherever 
practicable,  of  each  building's  special  object  of 
veneration,  such  as  the  Christ  of  Burgos  and  the 
Cid's  coffer  in  the  same  Cathedral ;  the  Emerald 
Buddha  at  Wat  Phra   Kao,  Bangkok;   the  statue 

of  Our  Lady  at  Toledo ;  etc.,  as  well  as  the  special 

i — Vol.  3 

256809 


VI  PREFACE 

feature  for  which  any  particular  building  is  famous, 
such  as  the  Court  of  Lions  in  the  Alhambra ;  the 
Chapel  of  Henry  VII.  in  Westminster  Abbey; 
the  Convent  of  the  Escurial  ;  the  spiral  stairway  at 
Chambord ;  etc.,  and  also  a  typical  scene,  like  the 
dance  de  los  seises  in  the  Cathedral  of  Seville ;  and 
the  celebration  of  Easter  at  St.  Peter's. 

Ruskin  says  :  "  It  is  well  to  have  not  only  what 
men  have  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands 
have  handled  and  their  strength  wrought  all  the 
days  of  their  life."  It  is  also  well  to  have  what 
sympathetic  authors  have  written  about  these  mas- 
sive and  wonderful  creations  of  stone  which  have 
looked  down  upon  and  outlived  so  many  genera- 
tions of  mankind. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Mosque  of  Santa  Sofia, 
all  the  translations  have  been  made  expressly  for 
this  book. 

E.  S. 

New  York,  May,  1898. 


Contents 


St.  Mark's,  Venice »    •         " 

John  Ruskin. 

The  Tower  of  London H 

William  Hepworth  Dixon. 

The  Cathedral  of  Antwerp 18 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

The  Taj  Mahal,  Agra 23 

Andre  Chevrillon. 

The  Cathedral  of  Notre-Dame,  Paris 28 

Victor  Hugo. 

The  Kremlin,  Moscow 38 

Theophile  Gautier. 

The  Cathedral  of  York 49 

Thomas  Frognall  Dibdin. 

The  Mosque  of  Omar,  Jerusalem 56 

Pierre  Loti. 

The  Cathedral  of  Burgos 65 

Theophile  Gautier. 

The  Pyramids,  Gizeh 71 

Georg  Ebers. 

St.  Peter's,  Rome 76 

Charles  Dickens. 


viii  CONTENTS 

The  Cathedral  of  Strasburg 84 

Victor  Hugo. 

The  Shway  Dagohn  Rangoon 92 

Gwendolin  Trench  Gascoigne. 

The  Cathedral  of  Siena 98 

John  Addington  Symonds. 

The  Town  Hall  of  Louvain 102 

Grant  Allen. 

The  Cathedral  of  Seville 105 

Edmondo  De  Amicis. 

Windsor  Castle no 

William  Hepworth  Dixon. 

The  Cathedral  of  Cologne 117 

Ernest  Breton. 

The  Palace  of  Versailles .126 

Augustus  J.  C.  Hare. 

The  Cathedral  of  Lincoln 132 

Thomas  Frognall  Dibdin. 

The  Temple  of  Karnak 137 

Amelia  B.  Edwards. 

Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  Florence •     143 

Charles  Yriarte. 

Giotto's  Campanile,  Florence 14  7 

1.  Mrs.  Oliphant. 
11.  John  Ruskin. 

The  House  of  Jacques  Cceur,  Bourges 15 2 

Ad.  Berty. 

Wat  Phra  Kao,  Bangkok 158 

Carl  Bock. 


CONTENTS  IX 

The  Cathedral  of  Toledo «...     163 

Theophile  Gautier. 

The  Chateau  de  Chambord 170 

Jules  Loiseleur. 

The  Temples  of  Nikko «    «     177 

Pierre  Loti. 

The  Palace  of  Holyrood,  Edinburgh     .     .     .     .     .     187 

David  Masson. 

Saint- Gudule,  Brussels 193 

Victor  Hugo. 

The  Escurial,  Madrid °     195 

Edmondo  De  Amicis. 

The  Temple  of  Madura 204 

James  Fergusson. 

The  Cathedral  of  Milan 20p 

Theophile  Gautier. 

The  Mosque  of  Hassan,  Cairo 215 

Amelia  B.  Edwards. 

The  Cathedral  of  Treves ...     221 

Edward  Augustus  Freeman. 

The  Vatican,  Rome 225 

Augustus  J.  C.  Hare. 

The  Cathedral  of  Amiens 234 

John  Ruskin. 

The  Mosque  of  Santa  Sofh,  Constantinople   .     .     .     24? 

Edmondo  De  Amicis. 

Westminster  Abbey,  London =     248 

Arthur  Penrhyn  Stanley. 

The  Parthenon.  Athens   ....  ...»     .     257 

John  Addington  Symonds. 


X  CONTENTS 

The  Cathedral  of  Rouen 263 

Thomas  Frognall  Dibdin. 

The  Castle  of  Heidelberg 269 

Victor  Hugo. 

The  Ducal  Palace,  Venice 278 

John  Ruskin. 

The  Mosque  of  Cordova 286 

Edmondo  De  Amicis. 

The  Cathedral  of  Throndtjem 293 

Augustus  J.  C.  Hare. 

The  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa 298 

Charles  Dickens. 

The  Alhambra,  Granada ,     .     301 

Theophile  Gautiek. 


Plates 

St.  Mark's Frontispiece 

SERIES  I 

Opposite  Page  56 

The  Tower  of  London 

The  Cathedral  of  Notre-Dame 

The  Kremlin,  Moscow 

The  Pyramids 

St.  Peter's 

Windsor  Castle 

The  Palace  of  Versailles 

The  Temple  of  Karnak 

SERIES  II 

Opposite  Page  216 

The  Temple  of  Madura 

The  Escurial 

The  Vatican 

The  Mosque  of  Santa-Sofia 

Westminster  Abbey 

The  Parthenon 

The  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa 

Alhambra 


Turrets,  Towers  and  Temples 


Turrets,  Towers,  and  Temples, 


ST.   MARK'S. 

JOHN   RUSKIN. 

A  YARD  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the  hostelry  of  the 
Black  Eagle,  and,  glancing  as  we  pass  through 
the  square  door  of  marble,  deeply  moulded,  in  the  outer 
wall,  we  see  the  shadows  of  its  pergola  of  vines  resting  on 
an  ancient  well,  with  a  pointed  shield  carved  on  its  side ; 
and  so  presently  emerge  on  the  bridge  and  Campo  San 
Moise,  whence  to  the  entrance  into  St.  Mark's  Place, 
called  the  Bocca  di  Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square),  the 
Venetian  character  is  nearly  destroyed,  first  by  the  fright- 
ful facade  of  San  Moise,  which  we  will  pause  at  another 
time  to  examine,  and  then  by  the  modernizing  of  the 
shops  as  they  near  the  piazza,  and  the  mingling  with  the 
lower  Venetian  populace  of  lounging  groups  of  English 
and  Austrians.  We  will  push  fast  through  them  into  the 
shadow  of  the  pillars  at  the  end  of  the  "  Bocca  di  Piazza," 
and  then  we  forget  them  all ;  for  between  those  pillars 
there  opens  a  great  light,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  as  we 
advance  slowly,  the  vast  tower  of  St.  Mark  seems  to  lift 
itself  visibly  forth  from  the  level  field  of  chequered  stones  i 


2  ST.    MARK'S. 

and,  on  each  side,  the  countless  arches  prolong  themselves 
into  ranged  symmetry,  as  if  the  rugged  and  irregular 
houses  that  pressed  together  above  us  in  the  dark  alley 
had  been  struck  back  into  sudden  obedience  and  lovely 
order,  and  all  their  rude  casements  and  broken  walls  had 
been  transformed  into  arches  charged  with  goodly  sculpture 
and  fluted  shafts  of  delicate  stone. 

And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for  beyond  those  troops 
of  ordered  arches  there  rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth,  and 
all  the  great  square  seems  to  have  opened  from  it  in  a  kind 
of  awe,  that  we  may  see  it  far  away ;  —  a  multitude  of 
pillars  and  white  domes,  clustered  into  a  long,  low  pyra- 
mid of  coloured  light ;  a  treasure-heap,  it  seems,  partly 
of  gold,  and  partly  of  opal  and  mother-of-pearl,  hollowed 
beneath  into  five  great  vaulted  porches,  ceiled  with  fair 
mosaic,  and  beset  with  sculpture  of  alabaster,  clear  as 
amber  and  delicate  as  ivory,  —  sculpture  fantastic  and 
involved,  of  palm  leaves  and  lilies,  and  grapes  and  pome- 
granates, and  birds  clinging  and  fluttering  among  the 
branches,  all  twined  together  into  an  endless  network  of 
buds  and  plumes ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  solemn  forms 
of  angels,  sceptred,  and  robed  to  the  feet,  and  leaning  to 
each  other  across  the  gates,  their  figures  indistinct  among 
the  gleaming  of  the  golden  ground  through  the  leaves 
beside  them,  interrupted  and  dim,  like  the  morning  light 
as  it  faded  back  among  the  branches  of  Eden,  when  first 
its  gates  were  angel-guarded  long  ago.  And  round  the 
walls  of  the  porches  there  are  set  pillars  of  variegated 
stones,  jasper  and  porphyry,  and  deep-green  serpentine- 
spotted  with  flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles,  that  half  refuse 


ST.   MARK'S,  3 

and  half  yield  to  the  sunshine,  Cleopatra-like,  "  their  bluest 
veins  to  kiss  "  —  the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them, 
revealing  line  after  line  of  azure  undulation,  as  a  receding 
tide  leaves  the  waved  sand  ;  their  capitals  rich  with  inter- 
woven tracery,  rooted  knots  of  herbage,  and  drifting  leaves 
of  acanthus  and  vine,  and  mystical  signs,  all  beginning  and 
ending  in  the  Cross  ;  and  above  them,  in  the  broad  archi- 
volts,  a  continuous  chain  of  language  and  of  life  —  angels, 
and  the  signs  of  heaven,  and  the  labours  of  men,  each  in 
its  appointed  season  upon  the  earth  j  and  above  these, 
another  range  of  glittering  pinnacles,  mixed  with  white 
arches  edged  with  scarlet  flowers,  —  a  confusion  of  delight, 
amidst  which  the  breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen 
blazing  in  their  breadth  of  golden  strength,  and  the  St. 
Mark's  Lion,  lifted  on  a  blue  field  covered  with  stars, 
until  at  last,  as  if  in  ecstasy,  the  crests  of  the  arches  break 
into  a  marble  foam,  and  toss  themselves  far  into  the  blue 
sky  in  flashes  and  wreaths  of  sculptured  spray,  as  if  the 
breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had  been  frost-bound  before 
they  fell,  and  the  sea-nymphs  had  inlaid  them  with  coral 
and  amethyst. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England  and  this,  what 
an  interval !  There  is  a  type  of  it  in  the  very  birds  that 
haunt  them;  for,  instead  of  the  restless  crowd,  hoarse- 
voiced  and  sable-winged,  drifting  on  the  bleak  upper  air, 
the  St.  Mark's  porches  are  full  of  doves,  that  nestle 
among  the  marble  foliage,  and  mingle  the  soft  iridescence 
of  their  living  plumes,  changing  at  every  motion  with  the 
tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that  have  stood  unchanged  for 
seven  hundred  years. 


4  ST.    MARK'S. 

And  what  effect  has  this  splendour  on  those  who  pass 
beneath  it  ?     You  may  walk  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  to  and 
fro,  before  the  gateway  of  St.  Mark's,  and  you  will  not  see 
an  eye  lifted   to  it,  nor  a  countenance    brightened  by  it. 
Priest  and  layman,  soldier  and  civilian,  rich  and  poor,  pass 
by  it  alike  regardlessly.     Up  to  the   very  recesses  of  the 
porches,   the   meanest    tradesmen    of   the   city  push    their 
counters ;  nay,  the  foundations  of  its  pillars  are  themselves 
the  seats  —  not  "  of  them  that   sell  doves  "  for  sacrifice, 
but  of  vendors  of  toys  and  caricatures.      Round  the  whole 
square  in  front  of  the  church  there  is  almost  a  continuous 
line  of  cafes,  where  the  idle  Venetians  of  the  middle  classes 
lounge,  and  read  empty  journals ;  in  its  centre  the  Austrian 
bands  play  during  the  time  of  vespers,  their  martial  music 
jarring  with   the  organ  notes,  —  the  march  drowning  the 
miserere,  and  the  sullen  crowd  thickening  around  them, — 
a  crowd   which,  if   it    had  its   will,   would    stiletto   every 
soldier  that  pipes  to  it.    And  in  the  recesses  of  the  porches, 
all  day  long,  knots  of  men  of  the  lowest  classes,  unem- 
ployed and  listless,  lie  basking  in  the  sun  like  lizards ;  and 
unregarded  children,  —  every  heavy  glance  of  their  young 
eyes    full    of  desperation    and    stony  depravity,  and    their 
throats  hoarse  with  cursing, —  gamble,  and  fight,  and  snarl, 
and  sleep,  hour  after  hour,  clashing  their  bruised  centesimi 
upon  the  marble   ledges  of  the  church  porch.     And   the 
images  of  Christ  and   His  angels  look  down  upon  it  con- 
tinually.  .  .   .  Let  us  enter   the  church  itself.     It  is  lost 
in  still  deeper  twilight,  to  which  the  eye  must  be  accus- 
tomed  for  some  moments  before   the  form  of  the  building 
can  be  traced  j  and  then  there  opens  before  us  a  vast  cave 


ST.    MARK'S.  5 

hewn  out  into  the  form  of  a  Cross,  and  divided  into 
shadowy  aisles  by  many  pillars.  Round  the  domes  of 
its  roof  the  light  enters  only  through  narrow  apertures 
like  large  stars  ;  and  here  and  there  a  ray  or  two  from 
some  far-away  casement  wanders  into  the  darkness,  and 
casts  a  narrow  phosphoric  stream  upon  the  waves  of 
marble  that  heave  and  fall  in  a  thousand  colours  along  the 
floor.  What  else  there  is  of  light  is  from  torches  or  silver 
lamps,  burning  ceaselessly  in  the  recesses  of  the  chapels ; 
the  roof  sheeted  with  gold,  and  the  polished  walls  covered 
with  alabaster,  give  back  at  every  curve  and  angle  some 
feeble  gleaming  to  the  flames ;  and  the  glories  round  the 
heads  of  the  sculptured  saints  flash  out  upon  us  as  we  pass 
them,  and  sink  again  into  the  gloom.  Under  foot  and 
over  head,  a  continual  succession  of  crowded  imagery,  one 
picture  passing  into  another,  as  in  a  dream ;  forms  beauti- 
ful and  terrible  mixed  together;  dragons  and  serpents,  and 
ravening  beasts  of  prey,  and  graceful  birds  that  in  the 
midst  of  them  drink  from  running  fountains  and  feed  from 
vases  of  crystal ;  the  passions  and  the  pleasures  of  human 
life  symbolized  together,  ^nu  the  mystery  of  its  redemption; 
for  the  mazes  of  interwoven  lines  and  changeful  pictures 
lead  always  at  last  to  the  Cross,  lifted  and  carved  in  every 
place  and  upon  every  stone;  sometimes  with  the  serpent 
of  eternity  wrapt  round  it,  sometimes  with  doves  beneath 
its  arms,  and  sweet  herbage  growing  forth  from  its  feet ;  but 
conspicuous  most  of  all  on  the  great  rood  that  crosses  the 
church  before  the  altar,  raised  in  bright  blazonry  against 
the  shadow  of  the  apse.  And  although  in  the  recesses  of 
the  aisles  and  chapels,  when  the  mist  of  the  incense  hangs 


6  ST.    MARK'S. 

heavily,  we  may  see  continually  a  figure  traced  in  faint 
lines  upon  their  marble,  a  woman  standing  with  her  eyes 
raised  to  heaven,  and  the  inscription  above  her,  "  Mother 
<of  God,"  she  is  not  here  the  presiding  deity.  It  is  the 
Cross  that  is  first  seen,  and  always,  burning  in  the  centre 
of  the  temple  ;  and  every  dome  and  hollow  of  its  roof  has 
the  figure  of  Christ  in  the  utmost  height  of  it,  raised  in 
power,  or  returning  in  judgment. 

Nor  is  this  interior  without  effect  on  the  minds  of  the 
ipeople.  At  every  hour  of  the  day  there  are  groups  col- 
lected before  the  various  shrines,  and  solitary  worshippers 
scattered  through  the  darker  places  of  the  church,  evidently 
in  prayer  both  deep  and  reverent,  and,  for  the  most  part, 
profoundly  sorr  wful.  Th°  d'  votees  at  the  greater  number 
of  the  renowned  shrines  of  Romanism  may  be  seen  mur- 
muring their  appointed  prayers  with  wandering  eyes  and 
unengaged  gestures ;  but  the  step  of  the  stranger  does  not 
disturb  those  who  kneel  on  the  pavement  of  St.  Mark's  j 
and  hardly  a  moment  passes,  from  early  morning  to  sun- 
set, in  which  we  may  not  see  some  half-veiled  figure  enter 
beneath  the  Arabian  porch,  cast  itself  into  long  abasement 
on  the  floor  of  the  temple,  and  then  rising  slowly  with 
more  confirmed  st-p,  and  with  a  passionate  kiss  and  clasp 
of  the  arms  given  to  the  feet  of  the  crucifix,  by  which  the 
lamps  burn  always  in  the  northern  aisle,  leave  the  church 
as   if  comforted.   .   .   . 

It  would  be  easier  to  illustrate  a  crest  of  Scottish  moun- 
tain, with  its   purple  heather   and   pale  harebells  at   their 
fullest  and  fairest,  or  a  glade  of  Jura  forest,  with  its  floor  or 
anemone  and  moss,  than  a  single  portico  of  St.  Mark's.  .  .  . 


ST.    MARK'S.  7 

The  balls  in  the  archivolt  project  considerably,  and  the 
interstices  between  their  interwoven  bands  of  marble  are 
filled  with  colours  like  the  illuminations  of  a  manuscript ; 
violet,  crimson,  blue,  gold,  and  green  alternately :  but  no 
green  is  ever  used  without  an  intermixture  of  blue  pieces 
in  the  mosaic,  nor  any  blue  without  a  little  centre  of  pale 
green ;  sometimes  only  a  single  piece  of  glass  a  quarter  of 
an  inch  square,  so  subtle  was  the  feeling  for  colour  which 
was  thus  to  be  satisfied.  The  intermediate  circles  have 
golden  stars  set  on  an  azure  ground,  varied  in  the  same 
manner;  and  the  small  crosses  seen  in  the  intervals  are 
alternately  blue  and  subdued  scarlet,  with  two  small  circles 
of  white  set  in  the  golden  ground  above  and  beneath  them, 
each  only  about  half  an  inch  across  (this  work,  remember, 
being  on  the  outside  of  the  building,  and  twenty  feet  above 
the  eye),  while  the  blue  crosses  have  each  a  pale  green 
centre.   .   .  . 

The  third  cupola,  that  over  the  altar,  represents  the 
witness  of  the  Old  Testament  to  Christ  ;  showing  him 
enthroned  in  its  centre  and  surrounded  by  the  patriarchs 
and  prophets.  But  this  dome  was  little  seen  by  the 
people ;  their  contemplation  was  intended  to  be  chiefly 
drawn  to  that  of  the  centre  of  the  church,  and  thus  the 
mind  of  the  worshipper  was  at  once  fixed  on  the  main 
groundwork  and  hope  of  Christianity  —  "  Christ  is  risen," 
and  "  Christ  shall  come."  If  he  had  time  to  explore  the 
minor  lateral  chapels  and  cupolas,  he  could  find  in  them 
the  whole  series  of  New  Testament  history,  the  events 
of  the  Life  of  Christ,  and  the  Apostolic  miracles  in  their 
order,  and  finally  the  scenery  of  the   Book  of  Revelation  ; 


8  ST.    MARK'S. 

but  if  he  only  entered,  as  often  the  common  people  do  to 
this  hour,  snatching  a  few  moments  before  beginning  the 
labour  of  the  day  to  offer  up  an  ejaculatory  prayer,  and 
advanced  but  from  the  main  entrance  as  far  as  the  altar 
screen,  all  the  splendour  of  the  glittering  nave  and  varie- 
gated dome,  if  they  smote  upon  his  heart,  as  they  might 
often,  in  strange  contrast  with  his  reed  cabin  among  the 
shallows  of  the  lagoon,  smote  upon  it  only  that  they  might 
proclaim  the  two  great  messages  —  "  Christ  is  risen,"  and 
"  Christ  shall  come."  Daily,  as  the  white  cupolas  rose 
like  wreaths  of  sea-foam  in  the  dawn,  while  the  shadowy 
campanile  and  frowning  palace  were  still  withdrawn  into 
the  night,  they  rose  with  the  Easter  Voice  of  Triumph  — 
"  Christ  is  risen ;  "  and  daily,  as  they  looked  down  upon 
the  tumult  of  the  people,  deepening  and  eddying  in  the 
wide  square  that  opened  from  their  feet  to  the  sea,  they 
uttered  above  them  the  sentence  of  warning,  — "  Christ 
shall   come." 

And  this  thought  may  surely  dispose  the  reader  to  look 
with  some  change  of  temper  upon  the  gorgeous  building 
and  wild  blazonry  of  that  shrine  of  St.  Mark's.  He  now 
perceives  that  it  was  in  the  hearts  of  the  old  Venetian 
people  far  more  than  a  place  of  worship.  It  was  at  once 
a  type  of  the  Redeemed  Church  of  God,  and  a  scroll  for 
the  written  word  of  God.  It  was  to  be  to  them,  both  an 
image  of  the  Bride,  all  glorious  within,  her  clothing  of 
wrought  gold  ;  and  the  actual  Table  of  the  Law  and  the 
Testimony,  written  within  and  without.  And  whether 
honoured  as  the  Church  or  as  the  Bible,  was  it  not  fitting 
that    neither  the    gold    nor  the  crystal    should    be    spared 


ST.    MARK'S.  9 

in  the  adornment  of  it ;  that,  as  the  symbol  of  the  Bride, 
the  building  of  the  wall  thereof  should  be  of  jasper,  and 
the  foundations  of  it  garnished  with  all  manner  of  precious 
stones;  and  that,  as  the  channel  of  the  World,  that  trium- 
phant utterance  of  the  Psa\mist  should  be  true  of  it  —  "I 
have  rejoiced  in  the  way  of  thy  testimonies,  as  much  as  in 
all  riches"  ?  And  shall  we  not  look  with  changed  temper 
down  the  long  perspective  of  St.  Mark's  Place  towards 
the  sevenfold  gates  and  glowing  domes  of  its  temple, 
when  we  know  with  what  solemn  purpose  the  shafts  of 
it  were  lifted  above  the  pavement  of  the  populous  square  ? 
Men  met  there  from  all  countries  of  the  earth,  for  traffic 
or  for  pleasure ;  but,  above  the  crowd  swaying  forever  to 
and  fro  in  the  restlessness  of  avarice  or  thirst  of  delight, 
was  seen  perpetually  the  glory  of  the  temple,  attesting  to 
them,  whether  they  would  hear  or  whether  they  would 
forbear,  that  there  was  one  treasure  which  the  merchant- 
men might  buy  without  a  price,  and  one  delight  better 
than  all  others,  in  the  word  and  the  statutes  of  God.  Not 
in  the  wantonness  of  wealth,  not  in  vain  ministry  to  the 
desire  of  the  eyes  or  the  pride  of  life,  were  those  marbles 
hewn  into  transparent  strength,  and  those  arches  arrayed 
in  the  colours  of  the  iris.  There  is  a  message  written  in 
the  dyes  of  them,  that  once  was  written  in  blood ;  and  a 
sound  in  the  echoes  of  their  vaults,  that  one  day  shall  fill 
the  vault  of  heaven,  —  "  He  shall  return,  to  do  judgment 
and  justice."  The  strength  of  Venice  was  given  her,  so 
long  as  she  remembered  this  :  her  destruction  found  her 
when  she  had  forgotten  this ;  and  it  found  her  irrevocably, 
because  she  forgot  it   without  excuse.      Never  had  city  a 


10  ST.   MARK'S. 

more  glorious  Bible.  Among  the  nations  of  the  North,  a 
rude  and  shadowy  sculpture  filled  their  temples  with  con- 
fused and  hardly  legible  imagery;  but,  for  her  the  skill 
and  the  treasures  of  tks  East  had  gilded  every  letter,  and 
illumined  every  page,  till  the  Book-Temple  shone  from 
afar  off  like  the  star  of  the  Magi, 

Stones  of  Venice  (London,  l^I-'j). 


THE   TOWER   OF   LONDON. 

WILLIAM    HEPWORTH    DIXON. 

HALF  a  mile  below  London  Bridge,  on  ground  which 
was  once  a  bluff,  commanding  the  Thames  from 
St.  Saviour's  Creek  to  St.  Olave's  Wharf,  stands  the 
Tower  y  a  mass  of  ramparts,  walls,  and  gates,  the  most 
ancient  and  most  poetic  pile  in  Europe. 

Seen  from  the  hill  outside,  the  Tower  appears  to  be 
white  with  age  and  wrinkled  by  remorse.  The  home  of 
our  stoutest  kings,  the  grave  of  our  noblest  knights,  the 
scene  of  our  gayest  revels,  the  field  of  our  darkest  crimes, 
that  edifice  speaks  at  once  to  the  eye  and  to  the  soul. 
Grey  keep,  green  tree,  black  gate,  and  frowning  battlement, 
stand  out,  apart  from  all  objects  far  and  near  them,  menac- 
ing, picturesque,  enchaining;  working  on  the  senses  like  a 
spell ;  and  calling  us  away  from  our  daily  mood  into  a 
world  of  romance,  like  that  which  we  find  painted  in  light 
and  shadow  on  Shakespeare's  page. 

Looking  at  the  Tower  as  either  a  prison,  a  palace,  or  a 
court,  picture,  poetry,  and  drama  crowd  upon  the  mind  ; 
and  if  the  fancy  dwells  most  frequently  on  the  state  prison, 
this  is  because  the  soul  is  more  readily  kindled  by  a  human 
interest  than  fired  by  an  archaic  and  official  fact.  For  one 
man  who  would  care  to  see  the  room  in  which  a  council 


12  THE   TOWER   OF   LONDON. 

met  or  a  court  was  held,  a  hundred  men  would  like  to  see 
the  chamber  in  which  Lady  Jane  Grey  was  lodged,  the  cell 
in  which  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  wrote,  the  tower  from  which 
Sir  John  Oldcastle  escaped.  Who  would  not  like  to  stand 
for  a  moment  by  those  steps  on  which  Ann  Boleyn  knelt ; 
pause  by  that  slit  in  the  wall  through  which  Arthur  De  la 
Pole  gazed ;  and  linger,  if  he  could,  in  that  room  in  which 
Cranmer,  Latimer  and  Ridley,  searched  the  New  Testa- 
ment together  ? 

The  Tower  has  an  attraction  for  us  akin  to  that  of  the 
house  in  which  we  were  born,  the  school  in  which  we  were 
trained.  Go  where  we  may,  that  grim  old  edifice  on  the 
Pool  goes  with  us ;  a  part  of  all  we  know,  and  of  all  we 
are.  Put  seas  between  us  and  the  Thames,  this  Tower 
will  cling  to  us  like  a  thing  of  life.  It  colours  Shakespeare's 
page.  It  casts  a  momentary  gloom  over  Bacon's  story. 
Many  of  our  books  were  written  in  its  vaults ;  the  Duke  of 
Orleans'  "  Poesies,"  Raleigh's  "  Historie  of  the  World," 
Eliot's  "  Monarchy  of  Man,"  and  Penn's  "  No  Cross,  No 
Crown." 

Even  as  to  the  length  of  days,  the  Tower  has  no  rival 
among  palaces  and  prisons;  its  origin,  like  that  of  the  Iliad, 
that  of  the  Sphinx,  that  of  the  Newton  Stone,  being  lost  in 
the  nebulous  ages,  long  before  our  definite  history  took 
shape.  Old  writers  date  it  from  the  days  of  Caesar;  a 
legend  taken  up  by  Shakespeare  and  the  poets,  in  favour  of 
which  the  name  of  Caesar's  Tower  remains  in  popular  use 
to  this  very  day.  A  Roman  wall  can  even  yet  be  traced 
near  some  parts  of  the  ditch.  The  Tower  is  mentioned  in 
the  Saxon  Chronicle-,  in  a  way  not   incompatible  with  the 


THE    TOWER    OF    LONDON.  13 

fact  of  a  Saxon  stronghold  having  stood  upon  this  spot. 
The  buildings  as  we  have  them  now  in  block  and  plan 
were  commenced  by  William  the  Conqueror;  and  the 
series  of  apartments  in  Caesar's  tower, —  hall,  gallery, 
council-chamber,  chapel,  —  were  built  in  the  early  Nor- 
man reigns,  and  used  as  a  royal  residence  by  all  our  Nor- 
man kings.  What  can  Europe  show  to  compare  against 
such  a  tale  ? 

Set  against  the  Tower  of  London  —  with  its  eight  hun- 
dred years  of  historic  life,  its  nineteen  hundred  years  of 
traditional  fame  —  all  other  palaces  and  prisons  appear  like 
things  of  an  hour.  The  oldest  bit  of  palace  in  Europe, 
that  of  the  west  front  of  the  Burg  in  Vienna,  is  of  the  time 
of  Henry  the  Third.  The  Kremlin  in  Moscow,  the 
Doge's  Palazzo  in  Venice,  are  of  the  Fourteenth  Century. 
The  Seraglio  in  Stamboul  was  built  by  Mohammed  the 
Second.  The  oldest  part  of  the  Vatican  was  commenced 
by  Borgia,  whose  name  it  bears.  The  old  Louvre  was 
commenced  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth  ;  the  Tuileries 
in  that  of  Elizabeth.  In  the  time  of  our  Civil  War  Ver- 
sailles was  yet  a  swamp.  Sans  Souci  and  the  Escurial 
belong  to  the  Eighteenth  Century.  The  Serail  of  Jeru- 
salem is  a  Turkish  edifice.  The  palaces  of  Athens,  of 
Cairo,  or  Tehran,  are  all  of  modern  date. 

Neither  can  the  prisons  which  remain  in  fact  as  well  as 
in  history  and  drama  —  with  the  one  exception  of  St. 
Angelo  in  Rome  —  compare  against  the  Tower.  The 
Bastile  is  gone  ;  the  Bargello  has  become  a  museum  ;  the 
Piombi  are  removed  from  the  Doge's  roof.  Vincennes, 
Spandau,  Spilberg,  Magdeburg,  are  all  modern  in  compari- 


14  THE   TOWER   OF   LONDON. 

son  with  a  jail  from  which  Ralph  Flambard  escaped  so 
long  ago  as  the  year  noo,  the  date  of  the  First  Crusade. 

Standing  on  Tower  Hill,  looking  down  on  the  dark  lines 
of  wall  —  picking  out  keep  and  turret,  bastion  and  ballium, 
chapel  and  belfry  —  the  jewel-house,  the  armoury,  the 
mounts,  the  casemates,  the  open  leads  —  the  Bye- ward 
gate,  the  Belfry,  the  Bloody  tower  —  the  whole  edifice 
seems  alive  with  story  ;  the  story  of  a  nation's  highest 
splendour,  its  deepest  misery,  and  its  darkest  shame.  The 
soil  beneath  your  feet  is  richer  in  blood  than  many  a  great 
battlefield ;  for  out  upon  this  sod  has  been  poured,  from 
generation  to  generation,  a  stream  of  the  noblest  life  in  our 
land.  Should  you  have  come  to  this  spot  alone,  in  the 
early  day,  when  the  Tower  is  noisy  with  martial  doings, 
you  may  haply  catch,  in  the  hum  which  rises  from  the  ditch 
and  issues  from  the  wall  below  you  —  broken  by  roll  of 
drum,  by  blast  of  bugle,  by  tramp  of  soldiers  —  some 
echoes,  as  it  were,  of  a  far-ofF  time  ;  some  hints  of  a  May- 
day revel ;  of  a  state  execution ;  of  a  royal  entry.  You 
may  catch  some  sound  which  recalls  the  thrum  of  a  queen's 
virginal,  the  cry  of  a  victim  on  the  rack,  the  laughter  of  a 
bridal  feast.  For  all  these  sights  and  sounds  —  the  dance 
of  love  and  the  dance  of  death  —  are  part  of  that  gay  and 
tragic  memory  which  clings  around  the  Tower. 

From  the  reign  of  Stephen  down  to  that  of  Henry  of 
Richmond,  Caesar's  tower  (the  great  Norman  keep,  now 
called  the  White  tower)  was  a  main  part  of  the  royal 
palace  ;  and  for  that  large  interval  of  time,  the  story  of  the 
White  tower  is  in  some  sort  that  of  our  English  society  as 
well  as  of  our  English  kings.     Here  were  kept  the  royal 


THE    TOWER   OF   LONDON.  15 

wardrobe  and  the  royal  jewels ;  and  hither  came  with  their 
goodly  wares,  the  tiremen,  the  goldsmiths,  the  chasers  and 
embroiderers,  from  Flanders,  Italy,  and  Almaigne.  Close 
by  were  the  Mint,  the  lions'  dens,  the  old  archery -grounds, 
the  Court  of  King's  Bench,  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas, 
the  Queen's  gardens,  the  royal  banqueting-hall ;  so  that  art 
and  trade,  science  and  manners,  literature  and  law,  sport 
and  politics,  find  themselves  equally  at  home. 

Two  great  architects  designed  the  main  parts  of  the 
Tower;  Gundul  the  Weeper  and  Henry  the  Builder;  one 
a  poor  Norman  monk,  the  other  a  great  English  king.  .  .  . 

Henry  the  Third,  a  prince  of  epical  fancies,  as  Corffe, 
Conway,  Beaumaris,  and  many  other  fine  poems  in  stone 
attest,  not  only  spent  much  of  his  time  in  the  Tower,  but 
much  of  his  money  in  adding  to  its  beauty  and  strength. 
Adam  de  Lambuxn  was  his  master  mason  ;  but  Henry  was 
his  own  chief  clerk  of  the  works.  The  Water  gate,  the 
embanked  wharf,  the  Cradle  tower,  the  Lantern,  which  he 
made  his  bedroom  and  private  closet,  the  Galleyman  tower, 
and  the  first  wall,  appear  to  have  been  his  gifts.  But  the 
prince  who  did  so  much  for  Westminster  Abbey,  not  con- 
tent with  giving  stone  and  piles  to  the  home  in  which  he 
dwelt,  enriched  the  chambers  with  frescoes  and  sculpture, 
the  chapels  with  carving  and  glass ;  making  St.  John's 
chapel  in  the  White  tower  splendid  with  saints,  St.  Peter's 
church  on  the  Tower  Green  musical  with  bells.  In  the 
Hall  tower,  from  which  a  passage  led  through  the  Great 
hall  into  the  King's  bedroom  in  the  Lantern,  he  built  a  tiny 
chapel  for  his  private  use  —  a  chapel  which  served  for  the 
devotion  of  his  successors  until  Henry  the  Sixth  was  stabbed 


l6  THE   TOWER   OF   LONDON. 

to  death  before  the  cross.  Sparing  neither  skill  nor  gold  to 
make  the  great  fortress  worthy  of  his  art,  he  sent  to  Pur- 
beck  for  marble,  and  to  Caen  for  stone.  The  dabs  of  lime, 
the  spawls  of  flint,  the  layers  of  brick,  which  deface  the 
walls  and  towers  in  too  many  places,  are  of  either  earlier  or 
later  times.  The  marble  shafts,  the  noble  groins,  the  deli- 
cate traceries,  are  Henry's  work.  Traitor's  gate,  one  of 
the  noblest  arches  in  the  world,  was  built  by  him ;  in  short, 
nearly  all  that  is  purest  in  art  is  traceable  to  his  reign.  .  .  . 

The  most  eminent  and  interesting  prisoner  ever  lodged 
in  the  Tower  is  Raleigh  ;  eminent  by  his  personal  genius, 
interesting  from  his  political  fortune.  Raleigh  has  in 
higher  degree  than  any  other  captive  who  fills  the  Tower 
with  story,  the  distinction  that  he  was  not  the  prisoner  of 
his  country,  but  the  prisoner  of  Spain. 

Many  years  ago  I  noted  in  the  State  Papers  evidence, 
then  unknown,  that  a  very  great  part  of  the  second  and 
long  imprisonment  of  the  founder  of  Virginia  was  spent 
in  the  Bloody  tower  and  the  adjoining  Garden  house ; 
writing  at  this  grated  window  ;  working  in  the  little  garden 
on  which  it  opened  ;  pacing  the  terrace  on  this  wall,  which 
was  afterwards  famous  as  Raleigh's  Walk.  Hither  came 
to  him  the  wits  and  poets,  the  scholars  and  inventors  of 
his  time;  Johnson  and  Burrell,  Hariot  and  Pett;  to  crack 
light  jokes  ;  to  discuss  rabbinical  lore  ;  to  sound  the  depths 
of  philosophy;  to  map  out  Virginia;  to  study  the  ship- 
builder's art.  In  the  Garden  house  he  distilled  essences 
and  spirits ;  compounded  his  great  cordial ;  discovered  a 
method  (afterwards  lost)  of  turning  salt  water  into  sweet ; 
received  the   visits  of  Prince    Henry ;   wrote  his   political 


THE    TOWER    OF    LONDON.  1"J 

tracts;  invented  the  modern  warship;  wrote  his  History  of 
the  World.  .  .  . 

The  day  of  Raleigh's  death  was  the  day  of  a  new  Eng- 
lish birth.  Eliot  was  not  the  only  youth  of  ardent  soul 
who  stood  by  the  scaffold  in  Palace  Yard,  to  note  the 
matchless  spirit  in  which  the  martyr  met  his  fate,  and 
walked  away  from  that  solemnity  —  a  new  man.  Thou- 
sands of  men  in  every  part  of  England  who  had  led  a  care- 
less life  became  from  that  very  hour  the  sleepless  enemies 
of  Spain.  The  purposes  of  Raleigh  were  accomplished, 
in  the  very  way  which  his  genius  had  contrived.  Spain 
held  the  dominion  of  the  sea,  and  England  took  it  from 
her.  Spain  excluded  England  from  the  New  World,  and 
the  genius  of  that  New  World  is  English. 

The  large  contest  in  the  new  political  system  of  the 
world,  then  young,  but  clearly  enough  defined,  had  come 
to  turn  upon  this  question  —  Shall  America  be  mainly 
Spanish  and  theocratic,  or  English  and  free  ?  Raleigh 
said  it  should  be  English  and  free.  He  gave  his  blood, 
his  fortune,  and  his  genius,  to  the  great  thought  in  his 
heart;  and,  in  spite  of  that  scene  in  Palace  Yard,  which 
struck  men  as  the  victory  of  Spain,  America  is  at  this 
moment  English  and  free. 

Her  Majesty's  Tower  (London,  1869). 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF   ANTWERP. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

I  WAS  awakened  this  morning  with  the  chime  which 
the  Antwerp  Cathedral  clock  plays  at  half  hours. 
The  tune  has  been  haunting  me  ever  since,  as  tunes  will. 
You  dress,  eat,  drink,  walk,  and  talk  to  yourself  to  their 
tune;  their  inaudible  jingle  accompanies  you  all  day;  you 
read  the  sentences  of  the  paper  to  their  rhythm.  I  tried 
uncouthly  to  imitate  the  tune  to  the  ladies  of  the  family 
at  breakfast,  and  they  say  it  is  "  the  shadow  dance  of 
Dinorah"  It  may  be  so.  I  dimly  remember  that  my  body 
was  once  present  during  the  performance  of  that  opera, 
while  my  eyes  were  closed,  and  my  intellectual  faculties 
dormant  at  the  back  of  the  box  ;  howbeit,  I  have  learned 
that  shadow  dance  from  hearing  it  pealing  up  ever  so  high 
in  the  air  at  night,  morn,  noon. 

How  pleasant  to  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  cheery  peal, 
while  the  old  city  is  asleep  at  midnight,  or  waking  up  rosy 
at  sunrise,  or  basking  in  noon,  or  swept  by  the  scudding 
rain  which  drives  in  gusts  over  the  broad  places,  and  the 
great  shining  river ;  or  sparkling  in  snow,  which  dresses 
up  a  hundred  thousand  masts,  peaks,  and  towers ;  or 
wrapped  round  with  thunder  —  cloud  canopies,  before  which 
the  white  gables    shine  whiter ;    day   and    night   the   kind 


THE   CATHEDRAL    OF   ANTWERP.  19 

little  carillon  plays  its  fantastic  melodies  overhead.  The 
bells  go  on  ringing.  £htot  vivos  vacant,  mortuos  plangunt, 
fulgura  frangunt ;  so  on  to  the  past  and  future  tenses,  and 
for  how  many  nights,  days,  and  years  !  While  the  French 
were  pitching  their  fulgura  into  Chasse's  citadel,  the  bells 
went  on  ringing  quite  cheerfully.  While  the  scaffolds 
were  up  and  guarded  by  Alva's  soldiery,  and  regiments  of 
penitents,  blue,  black,  and  grey,  poured  out  of  churches 
and  convents,  droning  their  dirges,  and  marching  to  the 
place  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  where  heretics  and  rebels  were 
to  meet  their  doom,  the  bells  up  yonder  were  chanting  at 
their  appointed  half  hours  and  quarters,  and  rang  the  mdu- 
vais  quart  etheure  for  many  a  poor  soul.  This  bell  can 
see  as  far  away  as  the  towers  and  dikes  of  Rotterdam. 
That  one  can  call  a  greeting  to  St.  Ursula's  at  Brussels, 
and  toss  a  recognition  to  that  one  at  the  town  hall  of 
Oudenarde,  and  remember  how,  after  a  great  struggle 
there  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  the  whole  plain  was 
covered  with  flying  French  chivalry  —  Burgundy,  and 
Berri,  and  the  Chevalier  of  St.  George  flying  like  the  rest. 
"  What  is  your  clamour  about  Oudenarde  ?  "  says  another 
bell  (Bob  Major  this  one  must  be).  "  Be  still  thou  queru- 
lous old  clapper  !  /  can  see  over  to  Hougoumont  and 
St.  John.  And  about  forty-five  years  since,  I  rang  all 
through  one  Sunday  in  June,  when  there  was  such  a 
battle  going  on  in  the  cornfields  there  as  none  of  you 
others  ever  heard  tolled  of.  Yes,  from  morning  service 
until  after  vespers,  the  French  and  English  were  all  at 
it,  ding-dong !  w  And  then  calls  of  business  intervening, 
the  bells  have  to  give  up  their  private  jangle,  resume  their 


20  THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   ANTWERP. 

professional    duty,  and    sing   their    hourly   chorus   out    of 
Dinorah. 

What  a  prodigious  distance  those  bells  can  be  heard  ! 
I  was  awakened  this  morning  to  their  tune,  I  say.  I  have 
been  hearing  it  constantly  ever  since.  And  this  house 
whence  I  write,  Murray  says,  is  two  hundred  and  ten 
miles  from  Antwerp.  And  \t  is  a  week  off;  and  there  is 
the  bell  still  jangling  its  shadow  dance  out  of  Dinorah. 
An  audible  shadow,  you  understand,  and  an  invisible  sound, 
but  quite  distinct ;  and  a  plague  take  the  tune ! 

Who  has  not  seen  the  church  under  the  bell  ?  Those 
lofty  aisles,  those  twilight  chapels,  that  cumbersome  pulpit 
with  its  huge  carvings,  that  wide  grey  pavement  flecked 
with  various  light  from  the  jewelled  windows,  those  famous 
pictures  between  the  voluminous  columns  over  the  altars 
which  twinkle  with  their  ornaments,  their  votive  little  silver 
hearts,  legs,  limbs,  their  little  guttering  tapers,  cups  of 
sham  roses,  and  what  not  ?  I  saw  two  regiments  of  little 
scholars  creeping  in  and  forming  square,  each  in  its  ap- 
pointed place,  under  the  vast  roof,  and  teachers  presently 
coming  to  them.  A  stream  of  light  from  the  jewelled 
windows  beams  slanting  down  upon  each  little  squad  of 
children,  and  the  tall  background  of  the  church  retires 
into  a  greyer  gloom.  Pattering  little  feet  of  laggards 
arriving  echo  through  the  great  nave.  They  trot  in  and 
join  their  regiments,  gathered  under  the  slanting  sun- 
beams. What  are  they  learning  ?  Is  it  truth  ?  Those 
two  grey  ladies  with  their  books  in  their  hands  in  the 
midst  of  these  little  people  have  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of 
every  word   they  have   printed   under  their   eyes.      Look, 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF   ANTWERP.  21 

through  the  windows  jewelled  all  over  with  saints,  the 
light  comes  streaming  down  from  the  sky,  and  heaven's 
own  illuminations  paint  the  book !  A  sweet,  touching 
picture  indeed  it  is,  that  of  the  little  children  assembled  in 
this  immense  temple,  which  has  endured  for  ages,  and 
grave  teachers  bending  over  them.  Yes,  the  picture  is 
very  pretty  of  the  children  and  their  teachers,  and  their 
book  —  but  the  text  ?  Is  it  the  truth,  the  only  truth, 
nothing  but  the  truth  ?  If  I  thought  so,  I  would  go  and 
sit  down  on  the  form  cum  parvulis^  and  learn  the  precious 
lesson  with  all  my  heart. 

But  I  submit,  an  obstacle  to  conversions  is  the  intrusion 
and  impertinence  of  that  Swiss  fellow  with  the  baldric  — 
the  officer  who  answers  to  the  beadle  of  the  British  islands 
—  and  is  pacing  about  the  church  with  an  eye  on  the 
congregation.  Now  the  boast  of  Catholics  is  that  theii 
churches  are  open  to  all ;  but  in  certain  places  and 
churches  there  are  exceptions.  At  Rome  I  have  been 
into  St.  Peter's  at  all  hours  :  the  doors  are  always  open, 
the  lamps  are  always  burning,  the  faithful  are  forever 
kneeling  at  one  shrine  or  the  other.  But  at  Antwerp  it 
is  not  so.  In  the  afternoon  you  can  go  to  the  church  and 
be  civilly  treated,  but  you  must  pay  a  franc  at  the  side 
gate.  In  the  forenoon  the  doors  are  open,  to  be  sure, 
and  there  is  no  one  to  levy  an  entrance  fee.  I  was  stand- 
ing ever  so  still,  looking  through  the  great  gates  of  the 
choir  at  the  twinkling  lights,  and  listening  to  the  distant 
chants  of  the  priests  performing  the  service,  when  a  sweet 
chorus  from  the  organ-loft  broke  out  behind  me  overhead, 
and  I  turned  round.     My  friend  the  drum-major  ecclesi* 


22  THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   ANTWERP. 

astic  was  down  upon  me  in  a  moment.  "  Do  not  turn 
your  back  to  the  altar  during  divine  service,"  says  he,  in 
very  intelligible  English.  I  take  the  rebuke,  and  turn  a 
soft  right-about  face,  and  listen  a  while  as  the  service  con- 
tinues. See  it  I  cannot,  nor  the  altar  and  its  ministrants. 
We  are  separated  from  these  by  a  great  screen  and  closed 
gates  of  iron,  through  which  the  lamps  glitter  and  the 
chant  comes  by  gusts  only.  Seeing  a  score  of  children 
trotting  down  a  side  aisle,  I  think  I  may  follow  them.  I 
am  tired  of  looking  at  that  hideous  old  pulpit,  with  its 
grotesque  monsters  and  decorations.  I  slip  off  to  the  side 
aisle  ;  but  my  friend  the  drum-major  is  instantly  after  me 
—  almost  I  thought  he  was  going  to  lay  hands  on  me. 
"  You  must  n't  go  there,"  says  he  ;  "  you  must  n't  dis- 
turb the  service."  I  was  moving  as  quietly  as  might  be, 
and  ten  paces  off  there  were  twenty  children  kicking  and 
chattering  at  their  ease.  I  point  them  out  to  the  Swiss. 
"  They  come  to  pray,"  says  he.  "  You  don't  come  to 
pray;  ypu  — "  "When  I  come  to  pay,"  says  I,  "  I  am 
welcome,"  and  with  this  withering  sarcasm  I  walk  out  of 
church  in  a  huff.  I  don't  envy  the  feelings  of  that  beadle 
after  receiving  point  blank  such  a  stroke  of  wit. 

Roundabout  Papers  (London,  1863), 


THE   TAJ   MAHAL. 

ANDRE  CHEVRILLON. 

IT  is  well  known  that  the  Taj  is  a  mausoleum  built  by 
the  Mogul  Shah-Jehan  to  the  Begum  Mumtaz-i- 
Mahal.  It  is  a  regular  octagon  surmounted  by  a  Persian 
dome,  which  is  surrounded  by  four  minarets.  The  build- 
ing, erected  upon  a  terrace  which  dominates  the  enclosing 
gardens,  is  constructed  of  blocks  of  the  purest  whit? 
marble,  and  rises  to  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  forty- 
three  feet.  We  step  from  the  carriage  before  a  noble 
portico  of  red  sandstone,  pierced  by  a  bold  arch  and 
covered  with  white  arabesques.  After  passing  through 
this  arch,  we  see  the  Taj  looming  up  before  us  eight 
hundred  metres  distant.  Probably  no  masterpiece  of  archi- 
tecture calls  forth  a  similar  emotion.  < 
At  the  back  of  a  marvellous  garden  and  with  all  of  its 
whiteness  reflected  in  a  canal  of  dark  water,  sleeping  inertly 
among  thick  masses  of  black  cypress  and  great  clumps  of 
red  flowers,  this  perfect  tomb  rises  like  a  calm  apparition. 
It  is  a  floating  dream,  an  aerial  form  without  weight,  so 
perfect  is  the  balance  of  the  lines,  and  so  pale,  so  delicate 
the  shadows  that  float  across  the  virginal  and  translucent 
stone.  These  black  cypresses  which  frame  it,  this  verdure 
through  the  openings  of  which  peeps    the   blue  sky,  and 

2— Vol.  3 


24  THE   TAJ   MAHAL. 

this  sward  bathed  in  brilliant  sunlight  and  on  which  the 
sharply-cut  silhouettes  of  the  trees  are  lying,  —  all  these 
real  objects  render  more  unreal  the  delicate  vision,  which 
seems  to  melt  away  into  the  light  of  the  sky.  V^  I  walk 
towards  it  along  the  marble  bank  of  the  dark  canal,  and 
the  mausoleum  assumes  sharper  form.  On  approaching 
you  take  more  delight  in  the  surface  of  the  octagonal 
edifice.  Thfe  consists  of  rectangular  expanses  of  polished 
marble  where  the  light  rests  with  a  soft,  milky  splendour. 
One  would  never  imagine  that  so  simple  a  thing  as  surface 
could  be  so  beautiful  when  it  is  large  and  pure.  ^  The  eye 
follows  the  ingenious  and  graceful  scrolls  of  great  flowers, 
flowers  of  onyx  and  turquoise,  incrusted  with  perfect 
smoothness,  the  harmony  of  the  delicate  carving,  the 
marble  lace-work,  the  balustrades  of  a  thousand  perfora- 
tions,—  the  infinite  display  of  simplicity  and  decoration. 

The  garden  completes  the  monument,  and  both  unite 
to  form  this  masterpiece  of  art.  The  avenues  leading  to 
the  Taj  are  bordered  with  funereal  yews  and  cypresses, 
which  make  the  whiteness  of  the  far-away  marble  appear 
even  whiter.  Behind  their  slender  cones  thick  and  massive 
bushes  add  richness  and  depth  to  this  solemn  vegetation. 
The  stifF  and  sombre  trees,  standing  out  in  relief  from  this 
waving  foliage,  rise  up  solemnly  with  their  trunks  half- 
buried  in  masses  of  roses,  or  are  surrounded  by  clusters 
of  a  thousand  unknown  and  sweet-scented  flowers  which 
are  blossoming  in  great  masses  in  this  solitary  garden.  He 
must  have  been  an  extraordinary  artist  who  conceived  this 
place.  Sweeps  of  lawn,  purple-chaliced  flowers,  golden 
petals,  swarms  of  humming  bees,  and  diapered  butterflies 


THE   TAJ   MAHAL.  2$ 

give  light  and  joy  to  the  gloom  of  the  burial-ground.  This 
place  is  both  luminous  and  solemn ;  it  contains  the 
amorous  and  religious  delights  of  the  Mussulman  paradise, 
and  the  poem  in  trees  and  flowers  unites  with  the  poem 
in  marble  to  sing  of  splendour  and  peace. 

The  interior  of  the  mausoleum  is  at  first  as  dark  as 
night,  but  through  this  darkness  a  grille  of  antique  marble 
is  faintly  gleaming,  a  mysterious  marble-lace,  which  drapes 
the  tombs,  and  which  seems  to  wind  and  unwind  forever, 
shedding  on  the  splendour  of  the  vault  a  yellow  light, 
which  seems  to  be  ancient,  and4  to  have  rested  there  for 
ages.  And  the  pale  web  of  marble  wreathes  and  wreathes 
until  it  loses  itself  in  the  darkness. 

In  the  centre  are  the  tombs  of  the  lovers ;  two  small 
sarcophagi  upon  which  a  mysterious  light  falls,  but  whence 
it  comes  no  one  knows.  There  is  nothing  more.  They 
sleep  here  in  the  silence,  surrounded  by  perfect  beauty 
which  celebrates  their  love  that  has  lasted  even  through 
death,  and  which  is  still  isolated  from  everything  by  the 
mysterious  marble-lace  which  enfolds  them  and  which 
floats  above  them  like  a  dream. 

Very  high  overhead,  as  if  through  a  thick  vapour,  we 
see  the  dome  loom  through  the  shadows,  although  its  entire 
outlines  are  not  perceptible ;  its  walls  seem  made  of  mist, 
and  its  marble  blocks  appear  to  have  no  solidity.  Every- 
thing is  aerial  here,  nothing  is  substantial  or  real :  this  is 
a  world  of  shadowy  visions.  Even  sounds  are  unearthly. 
A  note  sung  under  this  vault  is  echoed  above  our  heads  in  an 
invisible  region.  First,  it  is  as  clear  as  the  voice  of  Ariel, 
then  it  grows  fainter  and  fainter  until  it  dies  away  and  then 


26  THE   TAJ   MAHAL. 

is  re-echoed  very  far  above,  but  glorified,  spiritualized,  and 
multiplied  indefinitely  as  if  repeated  by  a  distant  company, 
a  choir  of  unseen  angels  who  soar  with  it  aloft  until  all  is 
lost  save  a  faint  murmur  which  never  ceases  to  vibrate 
over  the  tomb  of  the  beloved,  as  if  it  were  the  very  soul 
of  a  musician. 

I  have  seen  the  Taj  again  ;  this  time  at  noon.  Under 
the  vertical  sun  the  melancholy  phantom  has  vanished,  the 
sweet  sadness  of  the  mausoleum  has  gone.  The  great 
marble  table  on  which  it  stands  is  blinding.  The  light, 
reflected  back  and  forth  from  the  immense  surfaces  of 
white  marble,  is  increased  a  hundred-fold  in  intensity,  and 
some  of  the  sides  are  like  burning  plaques.  The  incrusta- 
tions seem  to  be  sparks  of  magic  fire ;  their  hundreds  of 
red  flowers  gleam  like  burning  coals.  The  religious  texts 
and  the  hieroglyphs,  inlaid  with  black  marble,  stand  out  as 
if  traced  by  the  lightning-finger  of  a  savage  god.  All  the 
mystical  rows  of  lotus  and  lilies  unfolding  in  relief,  which 
just  now  had  the  softness  of  yellowed  ivory,  spring  forth 
like  flames. —  I  retrace  my  steps,  passing  out  of  the  entrance, 
and  for  an  instant  I  have  a  dazzling  view  of  the  lines  and 
incandescent  surfaces  of  the  building  with  its  unchanging 
virgin  whiteness.  —  Indeed,  this  severe  simplicity  and  in- 
tensity of  light  give  it  something  of  a  Semitic  character  : 
we  think  of  the  flaming  and  chastening  sword  of  the 
Bible.  The  minarets  lift  themselves  into  the  blue  like 
pillars  of  fire. 

I  wander  outside  in  the  fresh  air  under  the  shadows  of 
the  leafy  arches  until  twilight.  This  garden  in  the  con- 
ception of  one  of  the  faithful  who  wished  to  glorify  Allah. 


THE   TAJ   MAHAL.  2J 

It  is  the  home  of  religious  delight :  —  "  No  one  shall  enter 
the  garden  of  God  unless  he  is  pure  of  heart,"  is  the 
Arabian  text  graven  over  the  entrance-gate.  Here  are 
flower-beds,  which  are  masses  of  velvet,  —  unknown 
blooms  resembling  heaps  of  purple  moss.l^JL  he  trunks  of 
the  trees  are  entwined  with  blue  convolvulus,  and  flowers 
like  great  red  stars  gleam  through  the  dark  foliage.  /  Over 
these  flowers  a  hundred  thousand  delicate  butterflies  hover 
in  a  perpetual  cloud.  Many  pretty  creatures,  little  striped 
squirrels  and  numerous  birds,  green  parrots  and  parrots  of 
more  brilliant  plumage,  disport  themselves  here,  making  a 
little  world,  happy  and  secure,  for  guards,  dressed  in  white 
muslin,  menace  with  long  pea-shooters  the  crows  and 
vultures  and  protect  them  from  everything  that  would  bring 
mischief  or  cruelty  into  this  peaceful  place.J|j> 

On  the  surface  of  the  still  waters  lilies  and  lotus  are 
sleeping,  their  stiff  leaves  pinked  out  and  resting  heavily 
upon  the  dark  mirror. 

Through  the  blackness  of  the  boughs  English  meadows 
are  revealed,  bathed  in  brilliant  sunlight,  and  spaces  of 
blue  sky,  across  which  a  triangle  of  white  storks  is  some- 
times seen  flying,  and,  at  certain  moments,  the  far-away 
vision  of  the  phantom  tomb  seems  like  the  melancholy 
spectre  of  a  virgin.  —  How  calm,  how  superb  this  solitude, 
charged  with  voluptuousness  at  once  solemn  and  enervating  ! 
Here  dwell  the  beauty,  the  tenderness,  and  the  light  of 
Asia,  dreamed  of  by  Shelley. 

Dans  rinde  (Paris,  1891). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF  NOTRE-DAME. 

VICTOR   HUGO. 

MOST  certainly,  the  Cathedral  of  Notre-Dame  is- 
still  a  sublime  and  majestic  edifice.  But,  despite 
the  beauty  which  it  preserves  in  its  old  age,  it  would  be 
impossible  not  to  be  indignant  at  the  injuries  and  mutila- 
tions which  Time  and  man  have  jointly  inflicted  upon  the 
venerable  structure  without  respect  for  Charlemagne,  who 
laid  its  first  stone,  and  Philip  Augustus,  who  laid  its  last. 

There  is  always  a  scar  beside  a  wrinkle  on  the  face  of 
this  aged  queen  of  our  cathedrals.  Tempus  edax  homo 
edacior,  which  I  should  translate  thus  :  Time  is  blind,  man 
is  stupid. 

If  we  had  leisure  to  examine  one  by  one,  with  the 
reader,  the  various  traces  of  destruction  imprinted  on  the 
old  church,  Time's  work  would  prove  to  be  less  destructive 
than  men's,  especially  des  hommes  de  Fart,  because  there 
have  been  some  individuals  in  the  last  two  centuries  who 
considered  themselves  architects. 

First,  to  cite  several  striking  examples,  assuredly  there 
are  few  more  beautiful  pages  in  architecture  than  that 
facade,  exhibiting  the  three  deeply-dug  porches  with  their 
pointed  arches  ;  the  plinth,  embroidered  and  indented  with 
twenty-eight    royal    niches ;    the    immense     central     rose- 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME.  29 

window,  flanked  by  its  two  lateral  windows,  like  the  priest 
by  his  deacon  and  sub-deacon  ;  the  high  and  frail  gallery 
of  open-worked  arches,  supporting  on  its  delicate  columns 
a  heavy  platform ;  and,  lastly,  the  two  dark  and  massive 
towers,  with  their  slated  pent-houses.  These  harmonious 
parts  of  a  magnificent  whole,  superimposed  in  five  gigantic 
stages,  and  presenting,  with  their  innumerable  details  of 
statuary,  sculpture,  and  carving,  an  overwhelming  yet 
not  perplexing  mass,  combine  in  producing  a  calm 
grandeur.  It  is  a  vast  symphony  in  stone,  so  to  speak ; 
the  colossal  work  of  man  and  of  a  nation,  as  united  and  as 
complex  as  the  Iliad  and  the  romanceros  of  which  it  is  the 
sister  j  a  prodigious  production  to  which  all  the  forces  of 
an  epoch  contributed,  and  from  every  stone  of  which  springs 
forth  in  a  hundred  ways  the  workman's  fancy  directed  by 
the  artist's  genius  ;  in  one  word,  a  kind  of  human  creation, 
as  strong  and  fecund  as  the  divine  creation  from  which  it 
seems  to  have  stolen  the  two-fold  character:  variety  and 
eternity. 

And  what  I  say  here  of  the  facade,  must  be  said  of  the 
entire  Cathedral ;  and  what  I  say  of  the  Cathedral  of  Paris, 
must  be  said  of  all  the  Mediaeval  Christian  churches. 
Everything  in  this  art,  which  proceeds  from  itself,  is  so 
logical  and  well-proportioned  that  to  measure  the  toe  of 
the  foot  is  to  measure  the  giant. 

Let  us  return  to  the  facade  of  Notre-Dame,  as  it  exists 
to-day  when  we  go  reverently  to  admire  the  solemn  and 
mighty  Cathedral,  which,  according  to  the  old  chroniclers, 
was  terrifying  :   qua  mole  sua  terrorem  Incutit  spectantibus. 

That  facade  now  lacks  three  important  things  :  first,  the 


30  THE   CATHEDR/L   OF   NOTRE-DAME. 

flight  of  eleven  steps,  which  raised  it  above  the  level  of  the 
ground ;  then,  the  lower  row  of  statues  which  occupied 
the  niches  of  the  three  porches  ;  and  the  upper  row  1  of  the 
twenty-eight  ancient  kings  of  France  which  ornamented 
the  gallery  of  the  first  story,  beginning  with  Childebert  and 
ending  with  Philip  Augustus,  holding  in  his  hand  "  la  pomme 
imperiale." 

Time  in  its  slow  and  unchecked  progress,  raising  the 
level  of  the  city's  soil,  buried  the  steps  ;  but  whilst  the 
pavement  of  Paris  like  a  rising  tide  has  engulfed  one  by 
one  the  eleven  steps  which  formerly  added  to  the  majestic 
height  of  the  edifice,  Time  has  given  to  the  church  more, 
perhaps,  than  it  has  stolen,  for  it  is  Time  that  has  spread 
that  sombre  hue  of  centuries  on  the  facade  which  makes 
the  old  age  of  buildings  their  period  of  beauty. 

But  who  has  thrown  down  those  two  rows  of  statues  ? 
Who  has  left  the  niches  empty  ?  Who  has  cut  that  new 
and  bastard  arch  in  the  beautiful  middle  of  the  central 
porch  ?  Who  has  dared  to  frame  that  tasteless  and  heavy 
wooden  door  carved  a  la  Louis  XV.  near  Biscornette's 
arabesques  ?  The  men,  the  architects,  the  artists  of  our 
day. 

And  when  we  enter  the  edifice,  who  has  overthrown 
that  colossal  Saint  Christopher,  proverbial  among  statues 
as  the  grand?  salle  du  Palais  among  halls,  or  the  fTeche  of 
Strasburg  among  steeples  ?  And  those  myriads  of  statues 
that  peopled  all  the  spaces  between  the  columns  of  the 
nave  and   choir,   kneeling,  standing,   on   horseback,   men, 

1  The  outside  of  Notre-Dame  has  been  restored  since  Victor  Hugo 
wrote  his  famous  romance.  —  E.  S. 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME.  31 

women,  children,  kings,  bishops,  warriors,  in  stone,  wood, 
marble,  gold,  silver,  copper,  and  even  wax,  —  who  has 
brutally  swept  them  away  ?      It  was  not  Time  ! 

And  who  has  substituted  for  the  old  Gothic  altar,  splen- 
didly overladen  with  shrines  and  reliquaries,  that  heavy 
marble  sarcophagus  with  its  angels'  heads  and  clouds, 
which  seems  to  be  a  sample  from  the  Val-de-Grace  or  the 
Invalides  ?  Who  has  so  stupidly  imbedded  that  heavy 
stone  anachronism  in  Hercanduc's  Carlovingian  pavement  ? 
Is  it  not  Louis  XIV.  fulfilling  the  vow  of  Louis  XIII.  ? 

And  who  has  put  cold  white  glass  in  the  place  of  those 
richly-coloured  panes,  which  made  the  astonished  gaze  of 
our  ancestors  pause  between  the  rose  of  the  great  porch 
and  the  pointed  arches  of  the  apsis  ?  What  would  an 
under-chorister  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  say  if  he  could 
see  the  beautiful  yellow  plaster  with  which  our  vandal 
archbishops  have  daubed  their  Cathedral  ?  He  would 
remember  that  this  was  the  colour  with  which  the  execu- 
tioner brushed  the  houses  of  traitors  ;  he  would  remember 
the  Hotel  du  Petit-Bourbon,  all  besmeared  thus  with 
yellow,  on  account  of  the  treason  of  the  Constable, 
"yellow  of  such  good  quality,"  says  Sauval,  "and  so  well 
laid  on  that  more  than  a  century  has  scarcely  caused  its 
colour  to  fade ;  "  and,  imagining  that  the  holy  place  had 
become  infamous,  he  would  flee  from  it. 

And  if  we  ascend  the  Cathedral  without  stopping  to 
notice  the  thousand  barbarities  of  all  kinds,  what  has  been 
done  with  that  charming  little  bell-tower,  which  stood 
over  the  point  of  intersection  of  the  transept,  and  which, 
neither   less    frail    nor    less  bold   than    its  neighbour,  the 


32  THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME. 

steeple  of  the  Sainte-Chapelle  (also  destroyed),  shot  up 
into  the  sky,  sharp,  harmonious,  and  open-worked,  higher 
than  the  other  towers  ?  It  was  amputated  by  an  architect 
of  good  taste  (1787),  who  thought  it  sufficient  to  cover  the 
wound  with  that  large  plaster  of  lead,  which  looks  like 
the  lid  of  a  pot. 

This  is  the  way  the  wonderful  art  of  the  Middle  Ages 
has  been  treated  in  all  countries,  particularly  in  France. 
In  this  ruin  we  may  distinguish  three  separate  agencies, 
which  have  affected  it  in  different  degrees ;  first,  Time 
which  has  insensibly  chipped  it,  here  and  there,  and  dis- 
coloured its  entire  surface ;  next,  revolutions,  both  politi- 
cal and  religious,  which,  being  blind  and  furious  by  nature, 
rushed  wildly  upon  it,  stripped  it  of  its  rich  garb  of  sculp- 
tures and  carvings,  shattered  its  tracery,  broke  its  garlands 
of  arabesques  and  its  figurines,  and  threw  down  its  statues, 
sometimes  on  account  of  their  mitres,  sometimes  on  ac- 
count of  their  crowns  ;  and,  finally,  the  fashions,  which, 
ever  since  the  anarchistic  and  splendid  innovations  of  the 
Renaissance,  have  been  constantly  growing  more  grotesque 
and  foolish,  and  have  succeeded  in  bringing  about  the 
decadence  of  architecture.  The  fashions  have  indeed 
done  more  harm  than  the  revolutions.  They  have  cut  it 
to  the  quick  ;  they  have  attacked  the  framework  of  art ; 
they  have  cut,  hacked,  and  mutilated  the  form  of  the  build- 
ing as  well  as  its  symbol;  its  logic  as  well  as  its  beauty. 
And  then  they  have  restored,  a  presumption  of  which  time 
and  revolutions  were,  at  least,  guiltless.  In  the  name  of 
good  taste  they  have  insolently  covered  the  wounds  of 
Gothic  architecture  with  their  paltry  gew-gaws  of  a  day, 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME.  33 

their  marble  ribbons,  their  metal  pompons,  a  veritable 
leprosy  of  oval  ornaments,  volutes,  spirals,  draperies,  gar- 
lands, fringes,  flames  of  stone,  clouds  of  bronze,  over-fat 
Cupids,  and  bloated  cherubim,  which  begin  to  eat  into  the 
face  of  art  in  Catherine  de'  Medici's  oratory,  and  kill  it, 
writhing  and  grinning  in  the  boudoir  of  the  Dubarry,  two 
centuries   later. 

Therefore,  in  summing  up  the  points  to  which  I  have 
called  attention,  three  kinds  of  ravages  disfigure  Gothic 
architecture  to-day  :  wrinkles  and  warts  on  the  epidermis, 
—  these  are  the  work  of  Time ;  wounds,  bruises  and 
fractures,  —  these  are  the  work  of  revolutions  from  Luther 
to  Mirabeau ;  mutilations,  amputations,  dislocations  of 
members,  restorations,  —  these  are  the  Greek  and  Roman 
work  of  professors,  according  to  Vitruvius  and  Vignole. 
That  magnificent  art  which  the  Vandals  produced,  acad- 
emies have  murdered.  To  the  ravages  of  centuries  and 
revolutions,  which  devastated  at  least  with  impartiality 
and  grandeur,  were  added  those  of  a  host  of  school  archi- 
tects, patented  and  sworn,  who  debased  everything  with 
the  choice  and  discernment  of  bad  taste ;  and  who  sub- 
stituted the  chicories  of  Louis  XV.  for  the  Gothic  lace- 
work,  for  the  greater  glory  of  the  Parthenon.  It  is  the 
ass's  kick  to  the  dying  lion.  It  is  the  old  oak  crown- 
ing itself  with  leaves  for  the  reward  of  being  bitten, 
gnawed,  and  devoured  by  caterpillars. 

How  far  this  is  from  the  period  when  Robert  Cenalis, 
comparing  Notre-Dame  de  Paris  with  the  famous  Temple 
of  Diana  at  Ephesus,  so  highly  extolled  by  the  ancient 
heathen,    which    has   immortalized   Erostratus,    found    the 


34  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF    NOTRE-DAME. 

Gaulois     cathedral     "plus     excellente     en    longueur,    largeur, 
hauteur,  et  structure." 

Notre-Dame  de  Paris  is  not,  however,  what  may  be 
called  a  finished,  defined,  classified  monument.  It  is  not 
a  Roman  church,  neither  is  it  a  Gothic  church.  This 
edifice  is  not  a  type.  Notre-Dame  has  not,  like  the  Abbey 
of  Tournus,  the  solemn  and  massive  squareness,  the  round 
and  large  vault,  the  glacial  nudity,  and  the  majestic  sim- 
plicity of  those  buildings  which  have  the  circular  arch  for 
their  generative  principle.  It  is  not,  like  the  Cathedral  of 
Bourges,  the  magnificent  product  of  light,  multiform,  tufted, 
bristling,  efflorescent  Gothic.  It  is  out  of  the  question  to 
class  it  in  that  ancient  family  of  gloomy,  mysterious,  low 
churches,  which  seem  crushed  by  the  circular  arch  ;  almost 
Egyptian  in  their  ceiling  ;  quite  hieroglyphic,  sacerdotal, 
and  symbolic,  charged  in  their  ornaments  with  more 
lozenges  and  zigzags  than  flowers,  more  flowers  than 
animals,  more  animals  than  human  figures ;  the  work  of 
the  bishop  more  than  the  architect,  the  first  transformation 
of  the  art,  fully  impressed  with  theocratic  and  military 
discipline,  which  takes  its  root  in  the  Bas-Empire,  and 
ends  with  William  the  Conqueror.  It  is  also  out  of  the 
question  to  place  our  Cathedral  in  that  other  family  of 
churches,  tall,  aerial,  rich  in  windows  and  sculpture,  sharp 
in  form,  bold  of  mien  ;  communales  and  bourgeois,  like  politi- 
cal symbols;  free,  capricious,  unbridled,  like  works  of  art; 
the  second  transformation  of  architecture,  no  longer  hiero- 
glyphic, immutable,  and  sacerdotal,  but  artistic,  progressive, 
and  popular,  which  begins  with  the  return  from  the  Cru- 
sades and  ends  with  Louis  XI.     Notre-Dame  de  Paris  is 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME.  35 

not  pure  Roman,  like  the  former,  nor  is  it  pure  Arabian, 
like  the  latter. 

It  is  an  edifice  of  the  transition.  The  Saxon  architect 
had  set  up  the  first  pillars  of  the  nave  when  the  Crusaders 
introduced  the  pointed  arch,  which  enthroned  itself  like  a 
conqueror  upon  those  broad  Roman  capitals  designed  to 
support  circular  arches.  On  the  pointed  arch,  thenceforth 
mistress  of  all  styles,  the  rest  of  the  church  was  built. 
Inexperienced  and  timid  at  the  beginning,  it  soon  broadens 
and  expands,  but  does  not  yet  dare  to  shoot  up  into  steeples 
and  pinnacles,  as  it  has  since  done  in  so  many  marvellous 
cathedrals.  You  might  say  that  it  feels  the  influence  of  its 
neighbours,  the  heavy  Roman  pillars. 

Moreover,  these  edifices  of  the  transition  from  the 
Roman  to  the  Gothic  are  not  less  valuable  for  study  than 
pure  types.  They  express  a  nuance  of  the  art  which  would 
be  lost  but  for  them.  This  is  the  engrafting  of  the  pointed 
upon  the  circular  arch. 

Notre-Dame  de  Paris  is  a  particularly  curious  specimen 
of  this  variety.  Every  face  and  every  stone  of  the  vener- 
able structure  is  a  page  not  only  of  the  history  of  the  coun- 
try, but  also  of  art  and  science.  Therefore  to  glance  here 
only  at  the  principal  details,  while  the  little  Porte  Rouge 
attains  almost  to  the  limits  of  the  Gothic  delicacy  of  the 
Fifteenth  Century,  the  pillars  of  the  nave,  on  account  of 
their  bulk  and  heaviness,  carry  you  back  to  the  date  of  the 
Carlovingian  Abbey  of  Saint-Germain  des  Pres,  you  would 
believe  that  there  were  six  centuries  between  that  doorway 
and  those  pillars.  It  is  not  only  the  hermetics  who  find  in 
the  symbols  of  the  large  porch  a  satisfactory  compendium 


2,6  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME. 

of  their  science,  of  which  the  church  of  Saint-Jacques  de  la 
Boucherie  was  so  complete  an  hieroglyphic.  Thus  the 
Roman  Abbey,  the  philosophical  church,  the  Gothic  art, 
the  Saxon  art,  the  heavy,  round  pillar,  which  reminds 
you  of  Gregory  VII.,  the  hermetic  symbols  by  which 
Nicholas  Flamel  heralded  Luther,  papal  unity  and  schism, 
Saint-Germain  des  Pres  and  Saint-Jacques  de  la  Boucherie ; 
all  are  melted,  combined,  amalgamated  in  Notre-Dame. 
This  central  and  generatrix  church  is  a  sort  of  chimaera 
among  the  old  churches  of  Paris  ;  it  has  the  head  of  one, 
the  limbs  of  another,  the  body  of  another,  —  something 
from  each  of  them. 

I  repeat,  these  hybrid  structures  are  not  the  least  interest- 
ing ones  to  the  artist,  the  antiquary,  and  the  historian.  They 
show  how  far  architecture  is  a  primitive  art,  inasmuch  as 
they  demonstrate  (what  is  also  demonstrated  by  the  Cyclo- 
pean remains,  the  pyramids  of  Egypt,  and  the  gigantic 
Hindu  pagodas),  that  the  grandest  productions  of  architec- 
ture are  social  more  than  individual  works ;  the  offspring, 
rather,  of  nations  in  travail  than  the  inspiration  of  men  of 
genius;  the  deposit  left  by  a  people;  the  accumulation  of 
ages  ;  the  residuum  of  the  successive  evaporations  of  human 
society  ;  in  short,  a  species  of  formation.  Every  wave  of 
time  superimposes  its  alluvion,  every  generation  deposits 
its  stratum  upon  the  building,  every  individual  lays  his 
stone.  Thus  build  the  beavers ;  thus,  the  bees ;  and  thus, 
men.  The  great  symbol  of  architecture,  Babel,  is  a  bee- 
hive. 

Great  buildings,  like  great   mountains,  are  the  work  of 
centuries.     Often  the  fashions  in  art  change  while  they  are 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME.  37 

being  constructed,  pendent  opera  interrupta  \  they  are  con- 
tinued quietly  according  to  the  new  art.  This  new  art 
takes  the  edifice  where  it  finds  it,  assimilates  with  it, 
develops  it  according  to  its  own  fancy,  and  completes  it,  if 
it  is  possible.  The  result  is  accomplished  without  disturb* 
ance,  without  effort,  without  reaction,  following  a  natural 
and  quiet  law.  It  is  a  graft  which  occurs  unexpectedly, 
a  sap  which  circulates,  a  vegetation  which  returns. 
Certes,  there  is  material  for  very  large  books  and  often  a 
universal  history  of  mankind,  in  those  successive  solder- 
ings  of  various  styles  at  various  heights  upon  the  structure. 
The  man,  the  artist,  and  the  individual  efface  themselves  in 
these  vast  anonymous  masses ;  human  intelligence  is  con- 
centrated and  summed  up  in  them.  Time  is  the  architect 5 
the  nation  is  the  mason. 

Notre  Dame  de  Paris  (Paris,  18  31). 


THE    KREMLIN. 

THEOPHILE    GAUTIER. 

THE  Kremlin,  always  regarded  as  the  Acropolis,  the 
Holy  Place,  the  Palladium,  and  the  very  heart  of 
Russia,  was  formerly  surrounded  by  a  palisade  of  strong 
oaken  stakes  —  similar  to  the  defence  which  the  Athenian 
citadel  had  at  the  time  of  the  first  invasion  of  the  Persians. 
Dmitri-Donskoi  substituted  for  this  palisade  crenellated 
walls,  which,  having  become  old  and  dilapidated,  were 
rebuilt  by  Ivan  III.  Ivan's  wall  remains  to-day,  but  in 
many  places  there  are  restorations  and  repairs.  Thick 
layers  of  plaster  endeavour  to  hide  the  scars  of  time  and 
the  black  traces  of  the  great  fire  of  1812  which  was  only 
able  to  lick  this  wall  with  its  tongues  of  flame.  The 
Kremlin  somewhat  resembles  the  Alhambra.  Like  the 
Moorish  fortress,  it  stands  on  the  top  of  a  hill  which  it 
encloses  with  its  wall  flanked  by  towers  :  it  contains  royal 
dwellings,  churches,  and  squares,  and  among  the  ancient 
buildings  a  modern  Palace  whose  intrusion  we  regret  as 
we  do  the  Palace  of  Charles  V.  amid  the  delicate  Sara- 
cenic architecture  which  it  seems  to  crush  with  its  weight. 
The  tower  of  Ivan  Veliki  is  not  without  resemblance  to 
the  tower  of  the  Vela ;  and  from  the  Kremlin,  as  from  the 


THE    KREMLIN.  39 

Alhambra,  a  beautiful  view  is  to  be  enjoyed,  a  panorama  of 
enchantment  which  the  fascinated  eye  will  ever  retain. 

It  is  strange  that  when  seen  from  a  distance  the  Kremlin 
is  perhaps  even  more  Oriental  than  the  Alhambra  itself 
whose  massive  reddish  towers  give  no  hint  of  the  splendour 
within.  Above  the  sloping  and  crenellated  walls  of  the 
Kremlin  and  among  the  towers  with  their  ornamented  roofs, 
myriads  of  cupolas  and  globular  bell-towers  gleaming  with 
metallic  light  seem  to  be  rising  and  falling  like  bubbles  of 
glittering  gold  in  the  strong  blaze  of  light.  The  white 
wall  seems  to  be  a  silver  basket  holding  a  bouquet  of 
golden  flowers,  and  we  fancy  that  we  are  gazing  upon  one 
of  those  magical  cities  which  the  imagination  of  the  Ara- 
bian story-tellers  alone  can  build  —  an  architectural  crys- 
tallization of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights!  And  when 
Winter  has  sprinkled  these  strange  dream-buildings  with 
its  powdered  diamonds,  we  fancy  ourselves  transported  into 
another  planet,  for  nothing  like  this  has  ever  met  our  gaze. 

We  entered  the  Kremlin  by  the  Spasskoi  Gate  which 
opens  upon  the  Krasnaia.  No  entrance  could  be  more 
romantic.  It  is  cut  through  an  enormous  square  tower, 
placed  before  a  kind  of  porch.  The  tower  has  three  di- 
minishing stories  and  is  crowned  with  a  spire  resting  upon 
open  arches.  The  double-headed  eagle,  holding  the  globe 
in  its  claws,  stands  upon  the  sharp  point  of  the  spire,  which, 
like  the  story  it  surmounts,  is  octagonal,  ribbed,  and  gilded. 
Each  face  of  the  second  story  bears  an  enormous  dial,  so 
that  the  hour  may  be  seen  from  every  point  of  the  compass. 
Add  for  effect  some  patches  of  snow  laid  on  the  jutting 
masonry  like  bold  dashes  of  pigment,  and  you  will  have  a 


40  THE    KREMLIN. 

faint  idea  of  the  aspect  presented  by  this  queenly  tower,  as 
it  springs  upward  in  three  jets  above  the  denticulated  wall 
which  it  breaks.  .  .  . 

Issuing  from  the  gate,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  large 
court  of  the  Kremlin,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  bewildering 
conglomeration  of  palaces,  churches,  and  monasteries  of 
which  the  imagination  can  dream.  It  conforms  to  no 
,  known  style  of  architecture.  It  is  not  Greek,  it  is  not 
Byzantine,  it  is  not  Gothic,  it  is  not  Saracen,  it  is  not 
Chinese  :  it  is  Russian  ;  it  is  Muscovite.  Never  did  archi- 
tecture more  free,  more  original,  more  indifferent  to  rules, 
in  a  word,  more  romantic,  materialize  with  such  fantastic 
caprice.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  resemble  the  freaks  of 
frostwork.  However,  its  leading  characteristics  are  the 
cupolas  and  the  golden-bulbed  bell-towers,  which  seem  to 
follow  no  law  and  are  conspicuous  at  the  first  glance. 

Below  the  large  square  where  the  principal  buildings  of 
the  Kremlin  are  grouped  and  which  forms  the  plateau  of 
the  hill,  a  circular  road  winds  about  the  irregularities  of  the 
ground  and  is  bordered  by  ramparts  flanked  with  towers  of 
infinite  variety  :  some  are  round,  some  square,  some  slender 
as  minarets,  some  massive  as  bastions,  and  some  with 
machicolated  turrets,  while  others  have  retreating  stories, 
vaulted  roofs,  sharply-cut  sides,  open-worked  galleries,  tiny 
cupolas,  spires,  scales,  tracery,  and  all  conceivable  endings. 
The  battlements,  cut  deeply  through  the  wall  and  notched 
at  the  top  like  an  arrow,  are  alternately  plain  and  pierced 
with  little  barbicans.  We  will  ignore  the  strategic  value 
of  this  defence,  but  from  a  poetic  standpoint  it  satisfies  the 
imagination  and  gives  the  idea  of  a  formidable  citadel. 


THE    KREMLIN.  41 

Between  the  rampart  and  the  platform  bordered  by  a 
balustrade  gardens  extend,  now  powdered  with  snow,  and  a 
picturesque  little  church  lifts  its  globular  bell-towers.  Be- 
yond, as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  lies  the  immense  and 
wonderful  panorama  of  Moscow  to  which  the  crest  of  the 
saw-toothed  wall  forms  an  admirable  foreground  and 
frame  for  the  distant  perspective  which  no  art  could 
improve.  .   .  . 

The  Kremlin  contains  within  its  walls  many  churches, 
or  cathedrals,  as  the  Russians  call  them.  Exactly  like  the 
Acropolis,  it  gathers  around  it  on  its  narrow  plateau  a  large 
number  of  temples.  We  will  visit  them  one  by  one,  but 
we  will  first  pause  at  the  tower  of  Ivan  Veliki,  an  enor- 
mous octagon  belfry  with  three  retreating  stories,  upon  the 
last  of  which  there  rises  from  a  zone  of  ornamentation  a 
round  turret  finished  with  a  swelling  dome,  fire-gilt  with 
ducat-gold,  and  surmounted  by  a  Greek  cross  resting  upon 
the  conquered  crescent.  Upon  each  side  of  each  story 
little  arches  are  cut  so  that  the  brazen  body  of  a  bell  may 
be  seen. 

In  this  place  there  are  thirty-three  bells,  among  which  is 
said  to  be  the  famous  alarm-bell  of  Novgorod,  whose  rever- 
berations once  called  the  people  to  the  tumultuous  delibera- 
tions in  the  public  square.  One  of  these  bells  weighs  not  less 
than  a  hundred  and  ninety-three  tons,  and  is  such  a  mon- 
ster of  metal  that  beside  it  the  great  bell  of  Notre-Dame 
of  which  Quasimodo  was  so  proud,  would  be  nothing  more 
than  the  tiny  hand-bell  used  at  Mass.   .  .  . 

Let  us  enter  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  characteristic 
cathedrals  of  the  Kremlin,  the  first  one  built  of  stone,  the 


42  THE   KREMLIN. 

Cathedral  of  the  Assumption  {Ouspenskosabor}.  It  is  not  the 
original  edifice  founded  by  Ivan  Kalita.  That  crumbled 
away  after  a  century  and  a  half  of  existence  and  was  re- 
built by  Ivan  III.  Notwithstanding  its  Byzantine  style 
and  archaic  appearance,  the  present  Cathedral  dates  only 
from  the  Fifteenth  Century.  One  is  astonished  to  learn  that 
it  is  the  work  of  Fioraventi,  an  architect  of  Bologna,  whom 
the  Russians  called  Aristotle  because  of  his  astounding 
knowledge.  One  would  imagine  it  the  work  of  some 
Greek  architect  from  Constantinople  whose  head  was  filled 
with  memories  of  Santa  Sofia  and  models  of  Greco- 
Oriental  architecture.  The  Assumption  is  almost  square 
and  its  great  walls  soar  with  a  surprising  pride  and  strength. 
Four  enormous  pillars,  large  as  towers  and  massive  as  the 
columns  of  the  Palace  of  Karnak,  support  the  central 
cupola,  which  rests  on  a  flat  roof  in  the  Asiatic  style, 
flanked  by  four  similar  cupolas.  This  simple  arrangement 
produces  a  magnificent  effect  and  these  massive  pillars  con- 
tribute, without  any  heaviness,  a  fine  balance  and  extraor- 
dinary stability  to  the   Cathedral. 

The  interior  of  the  church  is  covered  with  Byzantine 
paintings  on  a  gold  background.  The  pillars  themselves 
are  embellished  with  figures  arranged  in  zones  as  in  the 
Egyptian  temples  and  palaces.  Nothing  could  be  more 
strange  than  this  decoration  where  thousands  of  figures 
surround  you  like  a  mute  assemblage,  ascending  and  de- 
scending the  entire  length  of  the  walls,  walking  in  files  in 
Christian  panathenaea,  standing  alone  in  poses  of  hieratic 
rigidity,  bending  over  to  the  pendentives,  and  draping  the 
temple  with  a  human  tapestry  swarming  with  motionless 


THE    KREMLIN.  43 

1 
beings.      A    strange    light,  carefully   disposed,   contributes 

greatly  to  the  disquieting  and  mysterious  effect.  In  these 
ruddy  and  fawn-coloured  shadows  the  tall  savage  saints 
of  the  Greek  calendar  assume  a  formidable  semblance  of 
life ;  they  look  at  you  with  fixed  eyes  and  seem  to  threaten 
you  with  their  hands  outstretched  for  benediction.  .  .  .  The 
interior  of  St.  Mark's  at  Venice,  with  its  suggestion  of  a 
gilded  cavern,  gives  the  idea  of  the  Assumption  ;  only  the 
interior  of  the  Muscovite  church  rises  with  one  sweep 
towards  the  sky,  while  the  vault  of  St.  Mark's  is  strangely 
weighed  down  like  a  crypt.  The  i:onostase,  a  lofty  wall  of 
silver-gilt  with  five  rows  of  figures,  is  like  the  facade  of  a 
golden  palace,  dazzling  the  eye  with  fabled  magnificence. 
In  the  filigree  framework  of  gold  appear  in  tones  of  bistre 
the  dark  heads  and  hands  of  the  Madonnas  and  saints. 
The  rays  of  their  aureoles  are  set  with  precious  stones, 
which,  as  the  light  falls  upon  them,  scintillate  and  blaze 
with  celestial  glory  ;  the  images,  objects  of  peculiar  vene- 
ration, are  adorned  with  breastplates  of  precious  stones, 
necklaces,  and  bracelets,  starred  with  diamonds,  sapphires, 
rubies,  emeralds,  amethysts,  pearls,  and  turquoises ;  the 
madness  of  religious  extravagance   can   go  no  further. 

It  is  in  the  Cathedral  of  the  Assumption  that  the  coro- 
nation of  the  Czar  takes  place.  The  platform  for  this 
occasion  is  erected  between  the  four  pillars  which  support 
the  cupola  and   faces  the  iconostase. 

The  tombs  of  the  Metropolitans  of  Moscow  are  placed 
in  rows  along  the  sides  of  the  walls.  They  are  oblong  :  as 
they  loom  up  in  the  shadows,  they  make  us  think  of  trunks 
packed  for  the  great  voyage  of  eternity.   .   .  . 


44  THE    KREMLIN. 

At  the  side  of  the  new  palace  and  very  near  these 
churches  a  strange  building  is  seen,  of  no  known  style  of 
architecture,  neither  Asiatic  nor  Tartar,  and  which  for  a 
secular  building  is  much  what  Vassili-Blagennoi  is  for 
a  religious  edifice,  —  the  perfectly  realized  chimaera  of  a 
sumptuous,  barbaric,  and  fantastic  imagination.  It  was 
built  under  Ivan  III.  by  the  architect  Aleviso.  Above  its 
roof  several  towers,  capped  with  gold  and  containing  within 
them  chapels  and  oratories,  spring  up  with  a  graceful  and 
picturesque  irregularity.  An  outside  staircase,  from  the  top 
of  which  the  Czar  shows  himself  to  the  people  after  his 
coronation,  gives  access  to  the  building  and  produces  by  its 
ornamented  projection  a  unique  architectural  effect.  It  is  to 
Moscow  what  the  Giants'  Stairway  is  to  Venice.  It  is  one 
of  the  curiosities  of  the  Kremlin.  In  Russia  it  is  known 
as  the  Red  Stairway  {Kramoi-Kriltosi).  The  interior  of  the 
Palace,  the  residence  of  the  ancient  Czars,  defies  descrip- 
tion ;  one  would  say  that  its  chambers  and  passages  have 
been  excavated  according  to  no  determined  plan  in  some 
curious  block  of  stone,  for  they  are  so  strangely  entangled, 
so  winding  and  complicated,  and  so  constantly  changing 
their  level  and  direction  that  they  seem  to  have  been 
ordered  at  the  caprice  of  an  extravagant  fancy.  We  walk 
through  them  as  in  a  dream,  sometimes  stopped  by  a  grille 
which  opens  mysteriously,  sometimes  forced  to  follow  a 
narrow  dark  passage  in  which  our  shoulders  almost  touch 
both  walls,  sometimes  having  no  other  path  than  the 
toothed  ledge  of  a  cornice  from  which  the  copper  plates  of 
the  roofs  and  the  globular  belfries  are  visible,  constantly 
ascending,  descending  without  knowing  where  we  are,  see- 


THE   KREMLIN.  45 

ing  beyond  us  through  the  golden  trellises  the  gleam  of  a 
lamp  flashing  back  from  the  golden  filigree-work  of  the 
shrines,  and  emerging  after  this  intramural  journey  into  a 
hall  with  a  rich  and  riotous  wildness  of  ornamentation,  at 
the  end  of  which  we  are  surprised  at  not  seeing  the  Grand 
Kniaz  of  Tartary  seated  cross-legged  upon  his  carpet  of 
black  felt. 

Such  for  example  is  the  hall  called  the  Golden  Chamber, 
which  occupies  the  entire  Granovitaia  Palata  (the  Facet 
Palace),  so  called  doubtless  on  account  of  its  exterior  being 
cut  in  diamond  facets.  The  Granovitaia  Palata  adjoins  the 
old  palace  of  the  Czars.  The  golden  vaults  of  this  hall 
rest  upon  a  central  pillar  by  means  of  surbased  arches  from 
which  thick  bars  of  elliptical  gilded  iron  go  across  from  one 
arc  to  another  to  prevent  their  spreading.  Several  paintings 
here  and  there  make  sombre  spots  upon  the  burnished  gold 
splendour  of  the  background. 

Upon  the  string-courses  of  the  arches  legends  are  written 
in  old  Sclavonic  letters  —  magnificent  characters  which  lend 
themselves  with  as  much  effect  for  ornamentation  as  the 
Cufic  letters  on  Arabian  buildings.  Richer,  more  myste- 
rious, and  yet  more  brilliant  decorations  than  these  of  the 
Golden  Chamber  cannot  be  imagined.  A  romantic  person 
would  like  to  see  a  Shakespearian  play  acted  here. 

Certain  vaulted  halls  of  the  old  Palace  are  so  low  that  a 
man  who  is  a  little  above  the  average  height  cannot  stand 
upright  in  them.  It  is  here,  in  an  atmosphere  overcharged 
with  heat,  that  the  women,  lounging  on  cushions  in  Orien- 
tal style,  spend  the  hours  of  the  long  Russian  winter  in  gaz- 
ing through  the  little  windows  at  the  snow  sparkling  on  the 


46  THE    KREMLIN. 

golden  cupolas  and  the  ravens  whirling  in  great  circles 
around  the  bell-towers. 

These  apartments  with  their  motley  wall-decorations  of 
palms,  foliage,  and  flowers,  recalling  the  patterns  of  Cash- 
mere, make  us  imagine  these  to  be  Asiatic  harems  trans-^ 
ported  to  the  polar  frosts.  The  true  Muscovite  taste, 
perverted  later  by  a  badly-understood  imitation  of  Western 
art,  appears  here  in  all  its  primitive  originality  and  intensely 
barbaric  flavour. 

I  have  frequently  observed  that  the  progress  of  civilization 
seems  to  deprive  nations  of  the  true  sense  of  architecture 
and  decoration.  The  ancient  edifices  of  the  Kremlin  prove 
once  again  how  true  is  this  assertion,  which  appears  para- 
doxical at  first.  An  inexhaustible  fantasy  presides  over  the 
decoration  of  these  mysterious  rooms  where  the  gold,  the 
green,  the  blue,  and  the  red  mingle  with  a  rare  happiness 
and  produce  the  most  charming  effects.  This  architecture, 
without  the  least  regard  for  symmetry,  rises  like  a  honey- 
comb of  soap-bubbles  blown  upon  a  plate.  Each  little  cell 
takes  its  place  adjoining  its  neighbour,  arranging  its  own 
angles  and  facets  until  the  whole  glitters  with  colours  dia- 
pered with  iris.  This  childish  and  bizarre  comparison  will 
give  you  a  better  idea  than  anything  else  of  the  aggregation 
of  these  palaces,  so  fantastic,  yet   so  real. 

It  is  in  this  style  that  we  wish  they  had  built  the  new 
Palace,  an  immense  building  in  good  modern  taste  and 
which  would  have  a  beauty  elsewhere,  but  none  whatever  in 
the  centre  of  the  old  Kremlin.  The  classic  architecture 
with  its  long  cold  lines  seems  more  wearisome  and  solemn 
here  among  these  palaces  with  their  strange  forms,  their 


THE   KREMLIN.  47 

gaudy  colours,  and  this  throng  of  churches  of  Oriental  style 
darting  towards  the  sky  a  golden  forest  of  cupolas,  domes, 
pyramidal  spires,  and  bulbous  bell-towers. 

When  looking  at  this  Muscovite  architecture  you  could 
easily  believe  yourself  in  some  chimerical  city  of  Asia, 
fancying  the  cathedrals  mosques,  and  the  bell-towers 
minarets,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sober  facade  of  the  new 
Palace  which  leads  you  back  to  the  unpoetic  Occident  and 
its  unpoetic  civilization  ;  a  sad  thing  for  a  romantic  bar- 
barian of  the  present  day.  We  enter  the  new  Palace  by 
a  stairway  of  monumental  size  closed  at  the  top  by  a 
magnificent  grille  of  polished  iron  which  is  opened  to 
allow  the  visitor  to  pass.  We  find  ourselves  under  the  large 
vault  of  a  domed  hall  where  sentinels  are  perpetually  on 
guard:  four  effigies  clothed  from  head  to  foot  in  antique 
and  curious  Sclavonic  armour  These  knights  have  a 
noble  air;  they  are  surprisingly  life-like;  we  could  easily 
believe  that  hearts  are  beating  beneath  their  coats  of  mail. 
Mediaeval  armour  disposed  in  this  way  always  gives  me  an 
involuntary  shiver.  It  so  faithfully  suggests  the  external 
form  of  a  man  who  has  vanished  forever. 

From  this  rotunda  lead  two  galleries  which  contain 
priceless  riches :  the  treasure  of  the  Caliph  Haroun-al 
Raschid,  the  wells  of  Aboul-Kasem,  and  the  Green  Vaults 
of  Dresden  united  could  not  show  such  an  accumulation 
of  marvels,  and  here  historic  association  is  added  to  the 
material  value.  Here,  sparkling,  gleaming,  and  sportively 
flashing  their  prismatic  light,  are  diamonds,  sapphires, 
rubies,  and  emeralds  —  all  the  precious  stones  which 
Nature    has    hidden  in   the  depths   of  her  mines  —  in   as 


48  THE   KREMLIN. 

much  profusion  as  if  they  were  mere  glass.  They  glitter 
like  constellations  in  crowns,  they  flash  in  points  of  light 
from  the  ends  of  sceptres,  they  fall  like  sparkling  rain- 
drops upon  the  Imperial  insignias  and  form  arabesques 
and  cyphers  until  they  nearly  hide  the  gold  in  which  they 
are  set.  The  eye  is  dazzled  and  the  mind  can  hardly 
calculate  the  sums  that  represent  such  magnificence. 

Voyage  en  Ruuie  (Paris,  1866), 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   YORK. 

THOMAS    FROGNALL   DIBDIN. 

LET  us  go  immediately  to  the  Cathedral — the  deepen- 
ing tones  of  whose  tenor  bell  seem  to  hurry  us  on 
to  the  spot.  Gentle  reader,  on  no  account  visit  this  stu- 
pendous edifice  —  this  mountain  of  stone  —  for  the  first 
time  from  the  Stonegate  (Street)  which  brings  you  in  front 
of  the  south  transept.  Shun  it  —  as  the  shock  might  be 
distressing ;  but,  for  want  of  a  better  approach,  wend  your 
steps  round  by  Little  Blake  Street,  and,  at  its  termina- 
tion, swerve  gently  to  the  left,  and  place  yourself  full  in 
view  of  the  West  Front.  Its  freshness,  its  grandeur,  its 
boldness  and  the  numerous  yet  existing  proofs  of  its  ancient 
richness  and  variety,  will  peradventure  make  you  breath- 
less for  some  three  seconds.  If  it  should  strike  you  that 
there  is  a  want  of  the  subdued  and  mellow  tone  of  antiquity, 
such  as  we  left  behind  at  Lincoln,  you  must  remember 
that  nearly  all  this  front  has  undergone  a  recent  scraping 
and  repairing  in  the  very  best  possible  taste  —  under  the 
auspices  of  the  late  Dean  Markham,  who  may  be  said  to 
have  loved  this  Cathedral  with  a  holy  love.  What  has 
been  done,  under  his  auspices,  is  admirable ;  and  a  pattern 
for  all  future  similar  doings. 


50  THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   YORK. 

Look  at  those  towers  —  to  the  right  and  left  of  you. 
How  airy,  how  elegant,  what  gossamer-like  lightness,  and 
yet  of  what  stability  !  It  is  the  decorative  style  of  architec- 
ture, in  the  Fourteenth  Century,  at  which  you  are  now 
gazing  with  such  untiring  admiration.  Be  pleased  to  pass 
on  (still  outside)  to  the  left,  and  take  the  whole  range  of 
its  northern  side,  including  the  Chapter-House.  Look 
well  that  your  position  be  far  enough  out  —  between  the 
house  of  the  residing  prebendary  and  the  deanery  —  and 
then,  giving  rein  to  your  fancy,  gaze,  rejoice,  and  revel 
in  every  expression  of  admiration  and  delight !  —  for  it  has 
no  equal :  at  least,  not  in  Germany  and  France,  including 
Normandy.  What  light  and  shade  !  —  as  I  have  seen  it, 
both  beneath  the  sun  and  moon,  on  my  first  visit  to  the 
house  of  the  prebendal  residentiary  —  and  how  lofty,  mas- 
sive, and  magnificent  the  Nave  !  You  catch  the  Chapter- 
House  and  the  extreme  termination  of  the  choir,  connecting 
one  end  of  the  Cathedral  with  the  other,  at  the  same 
moment  —  comprising  an  extent  of  some  550  feet!  You 
are  lost  in  astonishment,  almost  as  much  at  the  conception, 
as  at  the  completion  of  such  a  building. 

Still  you  are  disappointed  with  the  central  Tower,  or 
Lantern  ;  the  work,  in  great  part,  of  Walter  Skirlaw,  the 
celebrated  Bishop  of  Durham,  —  a  name  that  reflects  honour 
upon  everything  connected  with  it.  Perhaps  the  upper 
part  only  of  this  tower  was  of  his  planning —  towards  the 
end  of  the  Fourteenth  Century.  It  is  sadly  disproportionate 
with  such  a  building,  and  should  be  lifted  up  one  hundred 
feet  at  the  least.   .   .   . 

After  several  experiments,  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  you 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   YORK.  5 1 

should  enter  the  interior  at  the  spot  where  it  is  usually 
entered ;  and  which,  from  the  thousand  pilgrim-feet  that 
annually  visit  the  spot,  may  account  for  the  comparatively 
worn  state  of  the  pavement ;  —  I  mean  the  South  Transept. 
Let  us  enter  alone,  or  with  the  many.  Straight  before 
you,  at  the  extremity  of  the  opposite  or  northern  transept, 
your  eyes  sparkle  with  delight  on  a  view  of  the  stained- 
glass  lancet  windows.  Fiow  delicate  —  how  rich  —  how 
chaste  —  how  unrivalled  !  All  the  colours  seem  to  be 
intertwined,  in  delicate  fibres,  like  Mechlin  lace.  There 
is  no  glare  :  but  the  tone  of  the  whole  is  perfectly  bewitch- 
ing. You  move  on.  A  light  streams  from  above.  It  is 
from  the  Lantern,  or  interior  summit  of  the  Great  Tower, 
upon  which  you  are  gazing.  Your  soul  is  lifted  up  with 
your  eyes  :  and  if  the  diapason  harmonies  of  the  organ  are 
let  loose,  and  the  sweet  and  soft  voices  of  the  choristers 
unite  in  the  Twelfth  Mass  of  Mozart — you  instinctively 
clasp  your  hands  together  and  exclaim,  "  This  must  be 
Heaven  !  " 

Descend  again  to  earth.  Look  at  those  clustered  and 
colossal  bases,  upon  which  the  stupendous  tower  is  raised. 
They  seem  as  an  Atlas  that  for  some  five  minutes  would 
sustain  the  world.  Gentle  visitor,  I  see  you  breathless, 
and  starting  back.  It  is  the  Nave  with  its  "  storied  win- 
dows richly  dight,"  that  transports  you  ;  so  lofty,  so  wide, 
so  simple,  so  truly  grand  !  The  secret  of  this  extraor- 
dinary effect  appears  to  be  this.  The  pointed  arches  that 
separate  the  nave  from  the  side  aisles,  are  at  once  spacious 
and  destitute  of  all  obtruding  ornaments ;  so  that  you 
catch  very  much  of  the  side  aisles  with  the  nave ;  and  on 


52  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   YORK. 

the  left,  or  south  aisle,  you  see  some  of  the  largest  win- 
dows in  the  kingdom,  with  their  original  stained  glass,  a 
rare  and  fortunate  result  —  from  the  fanatical  destruction 
of  the  Sixteenth  and  Seventeenth  Centuries  ;  and  for  which 
you  must  laud  the  memory  of  General  Lord  Fairfax, 
Cromwell's  son-in-law  :  who  showed  an  especial  tender- 
ness towards  this  Cathedral. 

"  Breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul  and  pass  on  " 

to  the  great  window  at  the  extremity  of  the  nave.  To  my 
eye  the  whole  of  this  window  wants  simplicity  and  gran- 
deur of  effect.  Even  its  outside  is  too  unsubstantial  and 
playful  in  the  tracery,  for  my  notion  of  congruity  with  so 
immense  a  Cathedral.  The  stained  glass  is  decidedly 
second-rate.  The  colour  of  the  whole  interior  is  admir- 
able and  worthy  of  imitation. 

But  where  is  The  Choir,  that  wonder  of  the  world  ?  — 
"  Yet  more  wondrous  grown "  from  its  phoenix-like 
revival  from  an  almost  all  devouring;  flame  ? 1  You  must 
retrace  your  steps  —  approach  the  grand  screen  —  throw- 
ing your  eye  across  the  continued  roof  of  the  nave ;  and, 
gently  drawing  a  red  curtain  aside,  immediately  under  the 
organ,  you  cannot  fail  to  be  ravished  with  the  most  mar- 
vellous sight  before  you.     Its  vastness,  its  unspeakable  and 

*  I  scarcely  know  how  to  trust  myself  with  the  mention  of  that 
most  appalling,  unprecedented,  act  of  a  one-third  madman  and  two- 
thirds  rogue  —  Jonathan  Martin  by  name  —  who  set  fire  to  the  choir 
of  York  Minster  :  a  fire  which  was  almost  miraculously  stopt  in  its 
progress  towards  the  destruction  of  the  entire  Cathedral.  This  had 
been  a  result  which  Martin  would  have  rejoiced  to  have  seen  effected. 
This  horrid  deed,  at  the  very  thought  of  which  the  heart  sickens,  took 
place  on  the  2d  of  February,  1829. 


THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   YORK.  53 

indescribable  breadth,  grandeur,  minuteness,  and  variety  of 
detail  and  finish  —  the  clustering  stalls,  the  stupendous 
organ,  the  altar,  backed  by  a  stone  Gothic  screen,  with 
the  interstices  filled  with  plate-glass  —  the  huge  outspread- 
ing eastern  window  behind,  with  its  bespangled  stained- 
glass,  describing  two  hundred  scriptural  subjects  —  all  that 
you  gaze  upon,  and  all  that  you  feel  is  so  much  out  of  < 
everyday  experience,  that  you  scarcely  credit  the  scene  to 
be  of  this  world.  To  add  to  the  effect,  I  once  saw  the 
vast  area  of  this  choir  filled  and  warmed  by  the  devotion 
of  a  sabbath  afternoon.  Sitting  under  the  precentor's 
stall,  I  looked  up  its  almost  interminable  pavement  where 
knees  were  bending,  responses  articulated,  and  the  organ's 
tremendous  peal  echoing  from  its  utmost  extremity. 
Above  the  sunbeams  were  streaming  through  the  che- 
quered stained-glass  —  and  it  was  altogether  a  scene  of 
which  the  recollection  is  almost  naturally  borne  with  one 
to  the  grave.  .   .  . 

This  Cathedral  boasts  of  two  transepts,  but  the  second 
is  of  very  diminutive  dimensions  :  indeed,  scarcely  amount- 
ing to  the  designation  of  the  term.  But  these  windows 
are  most  splendidly  adorned  with  ancient  stained-glass. 
They  quickly  arrest  the  attention  of  the  antiquary ;  whose 
bosom  swells,  and  whose  eyes  sparkle  with  delight,  as  he 
surveys  their  enormous  height  and  richness.  That^  on  the 
southern  side  has  a  sort  of  mosaic  work  or  dove-tailed 
character,  which  defies  adequate  description  —  and  is  an 
admirable  avant-propos  to  the  Chapter  House  :  —  the 
Chapter  House  !  —  that  glory  of  the  Cathedral  —  that 
wonder  of  the  world !   .  ■ 


54  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF   YORK. 

Doubtless  this  Chapter  House  is  a  very  repertory  of  all 
that  is  curious  and  grotesque,  and  yet  tasteful,  and  of  most 
marvellous  achievement.  You  may  carouse  within  it  for 
a  month  —  but  it  must  be  in  the  hottest  month  of  the 
year ;  and  when  you  are  tired  of  the  "  cool  tankard,"  you 
may  feast  upon  the  pages  of  Britton  and  Halfpenny.  .  .  . 
But  the  "  world  of  wonders "  exhibited  in  the  shape  of 
grotesque  and  capricious  ornaments  within  this  "  House," 
is  responded  to  by  ornaments  to  the  full  as  fanciful  and 
extravagant  within  the  Nave  and  Choir.  What  an  imagi- 
nation seems  to  have  been  let  loose  in  the  designer  en- 
gaged !  Look  at  what  is  before  you  !  Those  frisky  old 
gentlemen  are  sculptured  at  the  terminating  point,  as  cor- 
bels, of  the  arches  on  the  roof  of  the  nave:  and  it  is  curious 
that,  in  the  bottom  corbel,  the  figure  to  the  left  is  a  sort  of 
lampoon,  or  libellous  representation  of  the  clergy:  the 
bands  and  curled  hair  are  decisive  upon  this  point.  .  .  . 
When  I  pace  and  repace  the  pavement  of  this  stupendous 
edifice  —  when  I  meditate  within  this  almost  unearthly 
House  of  God  —  when  I  think  of  much  of  its  departed 
wealth  and  splendour,1  as  well  as  of  its  present  durability  and 

1  I  gather  the  following  from  the  abridged  English  version  (1693) 
of  Dugdale  s  Monasticon  as  quoted  by  Drake.  Where  is  even  the 
Protestant  bosom  that  does  not  heave  heavily  as  it  reads  it  ?  "  To 
this  Cathedral  did  belong  abundance  of  jewels,  vessels  of  gold  and 
silver,  and  other  ornaments  ;  rich  vestments  and  books,  —  amongst 
which  were  ten  mitres  of  great  value,  and  one  small  mitre  set  with 
stones  for  the  '  Boy  Bishop.''  One  silver  and  gilt  pastoral  staff,  many 
pastoral  rings,  amongst  which  one  for  the  bishop  of  the  boys.  Chal- 
ice., viols,  pots,  basons,  candlesticks,  thuribles,  holy-water  pots, 
crosses  of  silver  —  one  of  which   weighed   eight  pounds,  six  ounces. 


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THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   NOTRE-DAME. 


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THE   TEMPLE   OF   KARXAK. 


THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   YORK.  55 

grandeur — a  spirit  within  me  seems  to  say,  that  such  an 
achievement  of  human  skill  and  human  glory  should  perish 
only  with  the  crumbling  fragments  of  a  perishing  world. 
Altogether  it  looks  as  if  it  were  built  for  the  day  of 
doom. 

"  A    Bibliographical,  Antiquarian,   and  Picturesque    Tour    of  the 
Northern   Counties  of  England  and  in  Scotland'1''  (London,   1838). 

Images  of  gold  and  silver  ;  relicts  in  cases  extremely  rich  5  great 
bowls  of  silver  ;  an  unicorn's  horn  ;  a  table  of  silver  and  gilt,  with  the 
image  of  the  Virgin  enamelled  thereon,  weighing  nine  pounds,  eight 
ounces,  and  a  half.  Several  Gospellaries  and  Epistolaries,  richly 
adorned  with  silver,  gold,  and  precious  stones.  Jewels,  affixed  to 
shrines  and  tombs,  of  an  almost  inestimable  value.  Altar  cloths  and 
hangings,  very  rich  ;  copes  of  tissue,  damask,  and  velvet,  white,  red, 
blue,  green,  black,  and  purple.  Besides  this,  there  was  a  great  treas- 
ure, deposited  in  the  common  chest  in  gold  chains,  collars  of  the  Order 
of  the  Garter,  with  large  sums  of  old  gold  and  silver.'" 


3— Vol.  3 


THE   MOSQUE   OP   OMAR. 

PIERRE   LOTI. 

I  AM  enchanted  to-day  by  the  spell  of  Islam,  by  the 
newly-risen  sun,  by  the  Spring  which  warms  the  air. 

Moreover,  we  will  direct  our  steps  this  morning  towards 
the  holy  spot  of  the  Arabs,  towards  the  Mosque  of  Omar, 
accounted  marvellous  and  honoured  throughout  the  world. 
—  Jerusalem,  city  sacred  to  Christians  and  Jews,  is  also, 
after  Mecca,  the  most  sacred  Mohammedan  city.  —  The 

French  consul-general  and    Father  S ,   a   Dominican, 

celebrated  for  his  Biblical  erudition,  gladly  accompanied 
us,  and  a  janizary  of  the  consulate  preceded  us,  without 
whom  even  the  approaches  of  the  Mosque  would  have 
been  forbidden. 

We  walked  along  the  narrow  streets,  gloomy  notwith- 
standing the  sunlight,  and  between  the  old  windowless 
walls,  made  of  the  debris  of  all  epochs  of  history  and  into 
which  Hebraic  stones  and  Roman  marbles  are  fitted  here 
and  there.  As  we  advanced  towards  the  sacred  quarter 
everything  became  more  ruined,  more  devastated,  more 
dead,  —  infinite  desolation,  which  even  surrounded  the 
Mosque,  the  entrances  to  which  are  guarded  by  Turkish 
sentinels  who  prohibit  passage  to  Christians. 


THE   MOSQUE   OF   OMAR.  57 

Thanks  to  the  janizary,  we  clear  this  zone  of  fanatics, 
and  then,  by  a  series  of  little  dilapidated  doors,  we  pass 
into  a  gigantic  court,  a  kind  of  melancholy  desert  where 
the  grass  pushes  up  between  the  stones  as  it  does  in  a 
meadow  where  no  human  foot  ever  treads :  —  this  is 
Haram  es  Sherif  (The  Sacred  Enclosure).  In  the  centre, 
and  very  far  from  us,  there  rises  a  solitary  and  surprising 
edifice,  all  blue,  but  of  a  blue  so  exquisite  and  rare  that 
it  seems  to  be  some  old  enchanted  palace  made  of  tur- 
quoise; this  is  the  Mosque  of  Omar,  the  marvel  of  all 
Islam. 

How  wild  and  magnificent  is  the  solitude  that  the 
Arabs  have  succeeded  in  preserving  around  their  Mosque 
of  blue ! 

On  each  of  its  sides,  which  are  at  least  five  hundred 
metres  long,  this  square  is  hemmed  in  with  sombre  build- 
ings, shapeless  by  reason  of  decay,  incomprehensible  by 
reason  of  restorations  and  changes  made  at  various  epochs 
of  ancient  history :  at  the  base  are  Cyclopean  rocks,  rem- 
nants of  the  walls  of  Solomon  ;  above,  the  debris  of  Herod's 
citadel,  the  debris  of  the  pratorium  where  Pontius  Pilate 
was  enthroned  and  whence  Christ  departed  for  Calvary  ; 
then  the  Saracens,  and,  after  them,  the  Crusaders,  left 
everything  in  a  confused  heap,  and,  finally,  the  Saracens, 
again  having  become  the  masters  of  this  spot,  burned  or 
walled-up  the  windows,  raised  their  minarets  at  hap-hazard, 
and  placed  at  the  top  of  the  buildings  the  points  of  their 
sharp  battlements. 

Time,  the  leveller,  has  thrown  over  everything  a  uni- 
form colour  of  old  reddish  terra-cotta,  and  given  to  all  the 


58  THE   MOSQUE    OF   OMAR. 

buildings  the  same  vegetation,  the  same  decay,  the  same 
dust.  This  bewildering  chaos  of  bits  and  fragments,  for- 
midable in  its  hoary  age,  speaks  the  nothingness  of  man, 
the  decay  of  civilizations  and  races,  and  bestows  infinite 
sadness  upon  this  little  desert  beyond  which  rises  in  its 
solitude  the  beautiful  blue  palace  surmounted  by  its  cupola 
and  crescent,  —  the  marvellous  and  incomparable  Mosque 
of  Omar. 

As  we  advance  through  this  desert  broken  by  large 
white  stones  and  grass,  giving  it  the  feeling  of  a  cemetery, 
the  casing  of  the  blue  Mosque  becomes  more  defined  :  we 
seem  to  see  on  its  walls  jewels  of  many  colours  and  bril- 
liantly cut,  equally  divided  into  pale  turquoise  and  a  deep 
lapis-Iazuli,  with  a  little  yellow,  a  little  white,  a  little  green, 
and  a  little  black,  soberly  combined  in  very  delicate 
arabesques. 

Among  some  cypresses,  nearly  sapless,  several  very  an- 
cient and  dying  olives,  a  series  of  secondary  edicules  more 
numerous  towards  the  centre  of  the  great  court,  lead  to 
the  Mosque,  the  great  wonder  of  the  square.  Dotted 
about  are  some  little  marble  mihrabs,  some  light  arches, 
some  little  triumphal  arches,  and  a  kiosk  with  columns, 
which  also  seems  covered  with  blue  jewels.  Yet  here  in 
this  immense  square,  which  centuries  have  rendered  so 
desert-like,  so  melancholy,  and  so  forsaken,  Spring  has 
placed  amid  the  stones  her  garlands  of  daisies,  buttercups, 
and  wild  peonies. 

Coming  nearer,  we  perceive  that  these  elegant  and  frail 
little  Saracen  buildings  are  composed  of  the  debris  of  Chris- 
tian churches  and  antique  temples  j  the  columns  and  the 


THE   MOSQUE   OF   OMAR.  59 

marble  friezes  have  all  vanished,  torn  away  from  a  chapel 
of  the  Crusaders,  from  a  basilica  of  the  Greek  Emperors, 
from  a  temple  of  Venus,  or  from  a  synagogue.  If  the 
general  arrangement  is  Arab,  calm  and  stamped  with  the 
grace  of  Aladdin's  palace,  the  detail  is  full  of  instruction 
regarding  the  frailty  of  religions  and  empires  ;  this  detail 
perpetuates  the  memory  of  great  exterminating  wars,  of 
horrible  sacks,  of  days  when  blood  ran  here  like  water  and 
when  the  wholesale  slaughtering  "  did  not  end  until  the 
soldiers  were  weary   with  killing." 

In  all  this  conglomeration  only  that  blue  kiosk,  neigh- 
bour of  the  blue  Mosque,  can  tell  its  companion  of 
Jerusalem's  terrible  past.  Its  double  row  of  marble 
columns  is  like  a  museum  of  debris  from  all  countries  ;  we 
see  Greek,  Roman,  Byzantine,  or  Hebraic  capitals,  others 
of  an  undetermined  age,  of  a  wild  style  almost  unknown. 

Now  the  tranquillity  of  death  has  settled  over  all ;  the 
remnants  of  so  manv  various  sanctuaries  at  enmity  have 
been  grouped,  in  honour  of  the  God  of  Islam,  in  an  un- 
expected harmony,  and  this  will  perhaps  continue  until 
they  crumble  into  dust.  When  one  recalls  the  troublous 
past  it  is  strange  to  find  this  silence,  this  desolation,  and 
this  supreme  peace  in  the  centre  of  a  court  whose  white 
stones  are  invaded  by  the  daisies  and  weeds  of  the  field. 

Let  us  enter  this  mysterious  mosque  surrounded  by 
death  and  the  desert.  At  first  it  seems  dark  as  night :  we 
have  a  bewildering  sense  of  fairy-like  splendour.  A  very 
faint  light  penetrates  the  panes,  which  are  famed  through- 
out the  Orient  and  which  fill  the  row  of  little  windows 
above  ;  we  fancy  that  the  light  is  passing  through  flowers 


60  THE   MOSQUE    OF   OMAR. 

and  arabesques  of  precious  stones  regularly  arranged,  and 
this  is  the  illusion  intended  by  the  inimitable  glass-workers 
of  old.  Gradually,  as  our  eyes  grow  accustomed  to  the 
dim  light,  the  walls,  arches,  and  vaults  seem  to  be  covered 
with  some  rich  embroidered  fabric  of  raised  mother-of- 
pearl  and  gold  on  a  foundation  of  green.  Perhaps  it  is 
an  old  brocade  of  flowers  and  leaves,  perhaps  precious 
leather  from  Cordova,  or  perhaps  something  even  more 
beautiful  and  rare  than  either,  which  we  shall  recognize 
presently  when  our  eyes  have  recovered  from  the  blinding 
effect  of  the  sun  on  the  flags  outside  and  have  adjusted 
themselves  to  the  dusk  of  this  most  holy  sanctuary.  The 
mosque,  octagonal  in  form,  is  supported  within  by  two 
concentric  rows  of  pillars,  the  first  octagonal,  and  the 
second  circular,  sustaining  the  magnificent  dome. 

Each  column  with  its  gilded  capital  is  composed  of  a 
different  and  priceless  material  :  one  of  violet  marble  veined 
with  white ;  another  of  red  porphyry ;  another  of  that 
marble,  for  centuries  lost,  known  as  antique  verde.  The 
entire  base  of  the  walls,  as  high  as  the  line  where  the 
green  and  gold  embroideries  begin,  is  cased  with  marble. 
Great  slabs  cut  lengthwise  are  arranged  in  symmetrical 
designs  like  those  produced  in  cabinet-work  by  inlaid 
woods. 

The  little  windows  placed  close  to  the  dome,  from  which 
altitude  falls  the  reflected  light  as  though  from  jewels,  are 
all  of  different  colours  and  designs  ;  one  is  shaped  like 
a  daisy  and  composed  of  ruby  glass;  another  of  delicate 
arabesques  of  sapphire  mingled  with  the  yellow  of  the 
topaz;  and  a  third  of  emerald  sprinkled  with  rose. 


THE   MOSQUE   OF   OMAR.  6l 

What  makes  the  beauty  of  these,  as  of  all  Arabian 
windows,  is  that  the  various  colours  are  not  separated,  like 
ours,  by  lines  of  lead,  but  the  framework  of  the  window 
is  a  plate  of  thick  stucco  pierced  with  an  infinite  number 
of  little  holes,  ever  changing  with  the  light ;  the  effect  is 
always  some  new  and  beautiful  design ;  the  pieces  of 
transparent  blue,  yellow,  rose,  or  green,  are  inserted  deep 
in  the  thickness  of  the  setting  so  that  they  seem  to  be 
surrounded  by  a  kind  of  nimbus  caused  by  the  reflected 
light  along  the  sides  of  the  thick  apertures,  and  the  result 
is  a  deep  and  soft  glow  over  all,  and  through  this  light 
gleam  and  sparkle  the  pearl,  and  precious  stones. 

Now  we  begin  to  distinguish  what  we  supposed  was 
tapestry  over  the  masonry  :  it  consists  of  marvellous 
mosaics  covering  everything  and  simulating  brocades  and 
embroideries,  but  far  more  beautiful  and  durable  than  any 
woven  tissue,  for  its  lustre  and  diaper-work  have  been 
preserved  through  long  centuries  because  it  is  formed  of 
almost  imperishable  matter, — myriads  of  fragments  of 
marble,  with  mother-of-pearl  and  gold.  Throughout  the 
whole,  green  and  gold  predominate.  The  designs  are 
numbers  of  strange  vases  holding  stiff  and  symmetrical 
bouquets :  conventional  foliage  of  a  bygone  period,  dream- 
flowers  fashioned  in  ancient  days.  Above  these  are  antique 
vine-branches  composed  of  an  infinite  variety  of  green 
marbles,  stems  of  archaic  rigidity  bearing  grapes  of  gold 
and  clusters  of  pearl.  Here  and  there,  to  break  the 
monotony  of  the  green,  twin-petals  of  great,  red  flowers, 
shaded  with  minute  fragments  of  pink  marble  and  por- 
phyry, are  thrown  upon  a  background  of  gold. 


62  THE   MOSQUE   OF   OMAR. 

In  the  glow  of  colour  streaming  through  the  windows 
all  the  splendours  of  Oriental  tales  seem  to  be  revealed, 
vibrating  through  the  twilight  and  silence  of  this  sanctuary 
which  is  always  open  and  surrounded  by  the  spacious  court- 
yard in  which  we  stroll  alone.  Little  birds,  quite  at  home 
in  the  mosque,  fly  in  and  out  of  the  open,  bronze  doors, 
and  alight  on  the  porphyry  cornices  and  on  the  pearl  and 
gold,  and  are  benevolently  regarded  by  the  two  or  three 
venerable  and  white-bearded  officials  who  are  praying  in 
the  shadowy  recesses.  On  the  marble  pavement  are  spread 
several  antique  Persian  and  Turkish  rugs  of  the  most 
delicate,  faded   hues. 

On  entering  this  circular  mosque  its  vast  centre  is  in- 
visible, as  it  is  surrounded  by  a  double  screen.  The  first  is 
of  wood,  finely  carved  in  the  style  of  the  Mozarabians  ; 
the  second,  of  Gothic  iron-work,  placed  there  by  the 
Crusaders  when  they  used  it  temporarily  as  a  Christian 
fane.  Mounting  some  marble  steps,  our  eyes  at  last  rest 
upon  this  jealously-guarded   interior., 

Considering  all  the  surrounding  splendour,  we  now  ex- 
pect even  more  marvellous  riches  to  be  revealed,  but  we 
are  awed  by  an  apparition  of  quite  a  different  nature,  —  a 
vague  and  gloomy  shape  seems  to  have  its  abode  amid  the 
shadows  of  this  gorgeous  precinct ;  a  mass,  as  yet  unde- 
fined, seems  to  surge  through  the  semi-darkness  like  a 
great,  black,  solidified  wave. 

This  is  the  summit  of  Mount  Moriah,  sacred  alike  to 
the  Israelites,  Mussulmans,  and  Christians ;  this  is  the 
threshing-floor  of  Oman  the  Jebusite,  where  King  David 
saw  the  Destroying  Angel  holding  in  his  hand  the  destroy- 


THE   MOSQUE   OF   OMAR.  63 

ing  sword  stretched  out  over  Jerusalem  (2  Samuel  xxiv. 
16;    1  Chronicles  xxi.  15). 

Here  David  built  an  altar  of  burnt-offering  and  here 
his  son  Solomon  raised  the  Temple,  levelling  the  surround- 
ings at  great  cost,  but  preserving  the  irregularities  of  this 
peak  because  the  foot  of  the  angel  had  touched  it.  "  Then 
Solomon  began  to  build  the  house  of  the  Lord  at  Jerusalem 
in  Mount  Moriah,  where  the  Lord  appeared  unto  David 
his  father,  in  the  place  that  David  had  prepared  in  the 
threshing-floor  of  Oman  the  Jebusite  "  (2  Chronicles  iii.  1). 

We  know  through  what  scenes  of  inconceivable  magnifi- 
cence and  desolating  fury  this  mountain  of  Moriah  passed 
during  the  ages.  The  Temple  that  crowned  it,  razed  by 
Nebuchadnezzar,  rebuilt  on  the  return  from  the  captivity 
in  Babylon,  and  again  destroyed  under  Antonius  IV.,  was 
again  rebuilt  by  Herod  :  it  saw  Jesus  pass  by ;  His  voice 
was  heard  upon  its  summit. 

Therefore,  each  of  those  mighty  edifices  which  cost  the 
ransom  of  an  empire,  and  whose  almost  superhuman  foun- 
dations are  still  found  buried  in  the  earth,  confound  the 
imagination  of  us  moderns.  After  the  destruction  of  Jeru- 
salem by  Titus,  a  Temple  of  Jupiter  was  erected  under 
Hadrian's  reign,  replacing  the  Temple  of  the  Saviour. 
Later,  the  early  Christians,  to  spite  the  Jews,  kept  this 
sacred  peak  covered  with  debris  and  dirt,  and  it  was  the 
Caliph  Omar  who  piously  caused  it  to  be  cleared  as  soon  as 
he  had  conquered  Palestine  ;  and  finally,  his  successor,  the 
Caliph  Abd-el-Melek,  about  the  year  690,  enclosed  it  with 
the  lovely  Mosque  that  is   still  standing. 

With   the   exception  of  the  dome,  restored   during  the 


64  THE    MOSQUE   OF   OMAR. 

Twelfth  and  Fourteenth  Centuries,  the  Crusaders  found  it 
in  its  present  condition,  already  ancient  and  bearing  the 
same  relation  to  them  that  the  Gothic  cathedrals  do  to  us, 
for  it  was  clothed  with  the  same  fadeless  embroideries  of 
gold  and  marble  and  with  its  glistening  brocades  which  are 
almost  imperishable.  Converting  it  into  a  church,  they 
placed  their  marble  altar  in  the  centre  on  David's  rock. 
On  the  fall  of  the  Franks,  Saladin,  after  long  purifications 
by  sprinklings  of  rose-water,  restored  it  to  the  Faith  of 
Allah. 

Inscriptions  of  gold  in  old  Cufic  characters  above  the 
friezes  speak  of  Christ  after  the  Koran,  and  their  deep  wis- 
dom is  such  as  to  sow  disquietude  in  Christian  souls :  "  O 
ye  who  have  received  the  scriptures,  exceed  not  the  just 
bounds  of  your  religion.  Verily  Christ  Jesus  is  the  son  of 
Mary,  the  apostle  of  God,  and  his  Word  which  he  con- 
veyed unto  Mary.  Believe  then  in  God  and  in  his  Apostle, 
but  say  not  there  is  a  Trinity,  forbear  this,  it  will  be  better 
for  you.  God  is  but  one.  It  is  not  meet  that  God  should 
have  a  son.  When  He  decreeth  a  thing  He  only  saith  unto 
it:  cBe';  and  it  is."     (Sura  iv.  19.) 

A  dread  Past,  crushing  to  our  modern  puerility,  is  evoked 
by  this  black  rock,  this  dead  and  mummified  mountain 
peak,  on  which  the  dew  of  Heaven  never  falls,  which  never 
produces  a  plant,  nor  a  spray  of  moss,  but  which  lies  like 
the  Pharaohs  in  their  sarcophagi,  and  which,  after  two 
thousand  years  of  troubles,  has  now  been  sheltered  for 
thirteen  centuries  beneath  the  brooding  of  this  golden  dome 
and  these  marvellous  walls  raised  for  it  alone, 

Jerusalem  (Paris,  1895). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   BURGOS. 

THEOPHILE    GAUTIER. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  that  Burgos  was  for  so 
long  a  time  the  first  city  of  Castile,  it  is  not  very 
Gothic  in  appearance ;  with  the  exception  of  a  street  where 
there  are  several  windows  and  doors  of  the  Renaissance,  or- 
namented with  coats  of  arms  and  their  supporters,  the  houses 
do  not  date  further  back  than  the  beginning  of  the  Seven- 
teenth Century,  and  are  exceedingly  commonplace  ;  they  are 
old,  but  not  antique.  But  Burgos  has  her  Cathedral,  which 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world ;  unfortunately, 
like  all  the  Gothic  cathedrals,  it  is  shut  in  by  a  number  of 
ignoble  buildings  which  prevent  you  from  appreciating  the 
structure  as  a  whole  and  grasping  the  mass  at  a  glance. 
The  principal  porch  looks  upon  a  square,  in  the  centre  of 
which  is  a  beautiful  fountain  surmounted  by  a  delightful 
statue  of  Christ,  the  target  for  all  the  ruffians  of  the  town 
who  have  no  better  pastime  than  throwing  stones  at  its 
sculptures.  The  magnificent  porch,  like  an  intricate  and 
flowered  embroidery  of  lace,  has  been  scraped  and  rubbed 
as  far  as  the  first  frieze  by  I  don't  know  what  Italian  prel- 
ates,—  some  important  amateurs  in  architecture,  who  were 
great  admirers  of  plain  walls  and  ornamentation  in  good  taste, 
and  who,  having  pity  for  those  poor  barbarian  architects 


66  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  BURGOS. 

who  would  not  follow  the  Corinthian  order  and  had  no 
appreciation  of  Attic  grace  and  the  triangular  fronton, 
wished  to  arrange  the  Cathedral  in  the  Roman  style. 
Many  people  are  still  of  this  opinion  in  Spain,  where  the 
so-called  Messidor  style  flourishes  in  all  its  purity,  and,  ex- 
actly as  was  the  case  in  France  before  the  Romantic  School 
brought  the  Middle  Ages  into  favour  again  and  caused  the 
beauty  and  meaning  of  the  cathedrals  to  be  understood,  pre- 
fer all  kinds  of  abominable  edifices,  pierced  with  innumer- 
able windows  and  ornamented  with  Paestumian  columns,  to 
the  most  florid  and  richly-carved  Gothic  cathedrals.  Two 
sharp  spires  cut  in  saw-teeth  and  open-worked,  as  if  pierced 
with  a  punch,  festooned,  embroidered,  and  carved  down  to 
the  last  details  like  the  bezel  of  a  ring,  spring  towards  God 
with  all  the  ardour  of  faith  and  transport  of  a  firm  convic- 
tion. Our  unbelieving  campaniles  would  not  dare  to  ven- 
ture into  the  air  with  only  stone-lace  and  rik;  as  delicate  as 
gossamer  to  support  them.  Another  tower,  sculptured  with 
an  unheard-of  wealth,  but  not  so  high,  marks  the  spot 
where  the  transept  intersects  the  nave,  and  completes  the 
magnificence  of  the  outline.  A  multitude  of  statues  of 
saints,  archangels,  kings,  and  monks  animates  the  whole 
mass  of  architecture,  and  this  stone  population  is  so  numer- 
ous, so  crowded,  and  so  swarming,  that  surely  it  must 
exceed  the  population  of  flesh  and  blood  inhabiting  the 
town.   .   .   . 

The  choir,  which  contains  the  stalls,  called  siller'ia,  is  en- 
closed by  iron  grilles  of  the  most  wonderful  repousse  work  ; 
the  pavement,  according  to  the  Spanish  custom,  is  covered 
with  immense  mats  of  spartium,  and   each  stall  has,  more- 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   BURGOS.  6? 

over,  its  own  little  mat  of  dry  grass,  or  rushes.  On  rais- 
ing your  head  you  see  a  kind  of  dome,  formed  by  the 
interior  of  the  tower  of  which  we  have  already  spoken  ; 
it  is  a  gulf  of  sculptures,  arabesques,  statues,  little  columns, 
ribs,  lancets,  and  pendentives  —  enough  to  give  you  a  ver- 
tigo. If  you  looked  at  it  for  two  years,  you  would  not 
see  it  all.  It  is  as  crowded  together  as  the  leaves  of  a 
cabbage,  and  fenestrated  like  a  fish-slice  ;  it  is  as  gigantic 
as  a  pyramid  and  as  delicate  as  a  woman's  ear-ring,  and 
you  cannot  understand  how  such  a  piece  of  filigree-work 
has  remained  suspended  in  the  air  for  so  many  centuries. 
What  kind  of  men  were  those  who  made  these  marvellous 
buildings,  whose  splendours  not  even  fairy  palaces  can  sur- 
pass ?  Is  the  race  extinct  ?  And  we,  who  are  always 
boasting  of  our  civilization,  are  we  not  decrepit  barbarians 
in  comparison  ?  A  deep  sadness  always  oppresses  my 
heart  when  I  visit  one  of  these  stupendous  edifices  of  the 
Past ;  I  am  seized  with  utter  discouragement  and  my  one 
desire  is  to  steal  into  some  corner,  to  place  a  stone  beneath 
my  head,  and,  in  the  immobility  of  contemplation,  to  await 
death,  which  is  immobility  itself.  What  is  the  use  of 
working  ?  Why  should  we  tire  ourselves  ?  The  most 
tremendous  human  effort  will  never  produce  anything 
equal  to  this.  Ah  well !  even  the  names  of  these  divine 
artists  are  forgotten,  and  to  find  any  trace  of  them  you 
must  ransack  the  dusty  archives  in  the  convent !   .  „  . 

The  sacristy  is  surrounded  by  a  panelled  wainscot,  form- 
ing closets  with  flowered  and  festooned  columns  in  rich 
taste ;  above  the  wainscot  is  a  row  of  Venetian  mirrors 
whose  use  I  do  not  understand;  certainly  they  must   only 


68  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF    BURGOS. 

be  for  ornament  as  they  are  too  high  for  any  one   to  see 
himself    in    them.     Above    the    mirrors    are    arranged    in 
chronological    order,    the    oldest    nearest    the    ceiling,    the 
portraits  of  all  the   bishops  of   Burgos,  from   the   first   to 
the  one  now  occupying  the  episcopal    chair.     These  por- 
traits, although  they  are  oil,  look  more  like  pastels,  or  dis- 
temper, which  is  due  to  the  fact  that  in  Spain  pictures  are 
never  varnished,  and,  for  this  lack  of  precaution,  the  damp- 
ness   has   destroyed    many   masterpieces.     Although   these 
portraits  are,  for  the   most  part,   imposing,  they  are  hung 
too  high  for  one  to  judge  of  the  merit  of  the  execution. 
There  is  an   enormous   buffet  in  the  centre   of  the  room 
and  enormous   baskets  of  spartium,  in   which   the   church 
ornaments  and  sacred  vessels  are  kept.      Under  two  glass 
cases   are  preserved  as   curiosities  two   coral   trees,  whose 
branches  are  much  less  complicated  than  the  least  arabesque 
in  the  Cathedral.     The  door  is  embellished  with  the  arms 
of  Burgos  in  relief,  sprinkled  with  little  crosses,  gules. 

Juan  Cuchiller's  room,  which  we  next  visited,  is  not 
at  all  remarkable  in  the  way  of  architecture,  and  we  were 
hastening  to  leave  it  when  we  were  asked  to  raise  our  eyes 
and  look  at  a  very  curious  object.  This  was  a  great  chest 
fastened  to  the  wall  by  iron  clamps.  It  would  be  hard  to 
imagine  a  box  more  patched,  more  worm-eaten,  or  more 
dilapidated.  It  is  surely  the  oldest  chest  in  the  world; 
an  inscription  in  black-letter — Co/re  del  Cld — gives,  at 
once,  as  you  will  readily  believe,  an  enormous  importance 
to  these  four  boards  of  rotting  wood.  If  we  may  believe 
the  old  chronicle,  this  chest  is  precisely  that  of  the  famous 
Ruy  Diaz  de  Bivar,  better  known  under  the  name  of  the 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   BURGOS.  69 

Cid  Campeador,  who,  once  lacking  money,  exactly  like 
a  simple  author,  notwithstanding  he  was  a  hero,  had  this 
rilled  with  sand  and  stones  and  carried  to  the  house  of  an 
honest  Jewish  usurer  who  lent  money  on  this  security,  the 
Cid  Campeador  forbidding  him  to  open  the  mysterious 
coffer  until  he  had  reimbursed  the  borrowed  sum.   .  .  . 

The  need  of  the  real,  no  matter  how  revolting,  is  a 
characteristic  of  Spanish  Art :  idealism  and  convention- 
ality are  not  in  the  genius  of  these  people  completely  defi- 
cient in  aesthetic  feeling.  Sculpture  does  not  suffice  for 
them ;  they  must  have  their  statues  coloured,  and  their 
madonnas  painted  and  dressed  in  real  clothes.  Never, 
according  to  their  taste,  can  material  illusion  be  carried 
too  far,  and  this  terrible  love  of  realism  makes  them  often 
overstep  the  boundaries  which  separate  sculpture  from 
wax-works. 

The  celebrated  Christ,  so  revered  at  Burgos  that  no 
one  is  allowed  to  see  it  unless  the  candles  are  lighted,  is 
a  striking  example  of  this  strange  taste  :  it  is  neither  of 
stone,  nor  painted  wood,  it  is  made  of  human  skin  (so  the 
monks  say),  stuffed  with  much  art  and  care.  The  hair  is 
real  hair,  the  eyes  have  eye-lashes,  the  thorns  of  the  crown 
are  real  thorns,  and  no  detail  has  been  forgotten.  Nothing 
can  be  more  lugubrious  and  disquieting  than  this  attenu- 
ated, crucified  phantom  with  its  human  appearance  and 
deathlike  stillness  ;  the  faded  and  brownish-yellow  skin  is 
streaked  with  long  streams  of  blood,  so  well  imitated  that 
they  seem  to  trickle.  It  requires  no  great  effort  of  imagina- 
tion to  give  credence  to  the  legend  that  it  bleeds  every 
Friday.    In  the  place  of  folded,  or  flying  drapery,  the  Christ 


yo  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  BURGOS. 

of  Burgos  wears  a  white  skirt  embroidered  in  gold,  which 
falls  from  the  waist  to  the  knees  ;  this  costume  produces 
a  peculiar  effect,  especially  to  us  who  are  not  accustomed 
to  see  our  Lord  attired  thus.  At  the  foot  of  the  Cross 
three  ostrich  eggs  are  placed,  a  symbolical  ornament  of 
whose  meaning  I  am  ignorant,  unless  they  allude  to  the 
Trinity,  the   principle  and  germ  of  everything. 

We  went  out  of  the  Cathedral  dazzled,  overwhelmed, 
and  satiated  with  chefs  d'ceuvre,  powerless  to  admire  any 
longer,  and  only  with  great  difficulty  we  threw  a  glance 
upon  the  arch  of  Fernan  Gonzalez,  an  attempt  in  classical 
architecture  made  by  Philip  of  Burgundy  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Renaissance. 

Voyage  en  Espagne  (Paris,  new  cd»,  J  865). 


THE   PYRAMIDS. 

GEORG  EBERS. 

EARLY  in  the  morning  our  carriage,  drawn  by  fast 
horses,  rattles  across  the  Nile  on  the  iron  bridge 
which  joins  Cairo  to  the  beautiful  island  of  Gezirah.  The 
latter,  with  its  castle  and  the  western  tributary  of  the  river 
which  ripples  by  it,  are  soon  left  behind.  Beneath  the 
shade  of  acacias  and  sycamore-trees  runs  the  well-kept 
and  level  highway.  On  our  left  lie  the  castle  and  the 
high-walled,  vice-regal  gardens  of  Gizeh  ;  the  dewy  green 
fields,  intersected  by  canals,  rejoice  the  eye,  and  a  tender 
blue  mist  veils  the  west.  The  air  has  that  clearness  and 
aromatic  freshness  which  is  only  offered  by  an  Egyptian 
winter's  morning.  For  a  moment  the  enveloping  curtain 
of  cloud  lifts  from  the  horizon,  and  we  see  the  prodigious 
Pyramids  standing  before  us  with  their  sharp  triangles, 
and  the  misty  curtain  falls ;  to  the  right  and  left  we 
sometimes  see  buffaloes  grazing,  sometimes  flocks  of 
silvery  herons,  sometimes  a  solitary  pelican  within  gun- 
shot of  our  carriage ;  then  half-naked  peasants  at  their 
daily  labour  and  pleasing  villages  some  distance  from  the 
road.  Two  large,  whitish  eagles  now  soar  into  the  air. 
The  eye  follows  their  flight,  and,  in  glancing  upwards, 
perceives    how   the  mist    has   gradually   disappeared,  how 


72  THE  PYRAMIDS. 

brightly  dazzling  is  the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  how  the  sun 
is  at  last  giving  out  the  full  splendour  of  his  rays.  .  .  . 
We  stand  before  the  largest  of  these  works  of  man, 
which,  as  we  know,  the  ancients  glorified  as  "  wonders 
of  the  world."  It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  their  form 
for  everybody  knows  the  stereometrical  figure  to  which 
their  name  has  been  given,  and  this  is  not  the  place  to 
print  a  numerical  estimate  of  their  mass.  Only  by  a 
comparison  with  other  structures  present  in  our  memory 
can  any  idea  of  their  immensity  be  realized  j  and,  con- 
sequently, it  may  be  said  here  that  while  St.  Peter's  in 
Rome  is  131  metres  high  (430  feet),  the  Great  Pyramid 
(of  Cheops),  with  its  restored  apex  would  be  147  metres 
(482  feet),  and  is  thus  16  metres  (52  feet)  taller;  therefore, 
if  the  Pyramid  of  Cheops  were  hollow,  the  great  Cathedral 
of  Rome  could  be  placed  within  it  like  a  clock  under 
a  protecting  glass-shade.  Neither  St.  Stephen's  Cathedral 
in  Vienna,  nor  the  Munster  of  Strasburg  reaches  the  height 
of  the  highest  Pyramid ;  but  the  new  towers  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Cologne  exceed  it.  In  one  respect  no  other 
building  in  the  world  can  be  compared  with  the  Pyramids, 
and  that  is  in  regard  to  the  mass  and  weight  of  the  materials 
used  in  their  construction.  If  the  tomb  of  Cheops  were 
razed,  a  wall  could  be  built  with  its  stones  all  around  the 
frontiers  of  France.  If  you  fire  a  good  pistol  from  the 
top  of  the  great  Pyramid  into  the  air,  the  ball  falls  half- 
way down  its  side.  By  such  comparisons  they  who  have 
not  visited  Egypt  may  form  an  idea  of  the  dimensions  of 
these  amazing  structures ;  he  who  stands  on  the  sandy 
ground  and  raises  his  eyes  to  the  summit,  needs  no  such 
aids. 


THE   PYRAMIDS.  73 

We  get  out  of  the  carriage  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Pyramid  of  Cheops.  In  the  sharply-defined  triangular 
shadows  women  are  squatted,  offering  oranges  and  various 
eatables  for  sale ;  donkey-boys  are  waiting  with  their  grey 
animals ;  and  travellers  are  resting  after  having  accom- 
plished the  ascent.  This  work  now  lies  before  us,  and 
if  we  were  willing  to  shirk  it,  there  would  be  many  attacks 
on  our  indolence,  for  from  the  moment  we  stepped  from 
our  carriage,  we  have  been  closely  followed  by  a  ragged, 
brown,  and  sinewy  crowd,  vehemently  offering  their  ser- 
vices. They  call  themselves  Bedouin  with  great  pride,  but 
they  have  nothing  in  common  with  the  true  sons  of  the 
desert  except  their  faults.  Nevertheless,  it  is  not  only 
prudent  but  necessary  to  accept  their  assistance,  although 
the  way  up  can  scarcely  be   mistaken. 

We  begin  the  ascent  at  a  place  where  the  outside  stone 
casing  of  the  Pyramid  has  fallen  away,  leaving  the  terrace- 
like blocks  of  the  interior  exposed  ;  but  the  steps  are  un- 
equal and  sometimes  of  considerable  height ;  some  of  them 
are  half  as  high  as  a  man.  Two  or  three  lads  accompany 
me;  one  jumps  up  first  with  his  bare  feet,  holds  my  hands, 
and  drags  me  after  him ;  another  follows  the  climber, 
props  his  back,  and  thrusts  and  pushes  him  forwards;  while 
a  third  grabs  his  side  beneath  his  arm,  and  lifts  him.  Thus, 
one  half-scrambles  up  himself  and  is  half-dragged  up,  while 
the  nimble  lads  give  the  climber  no  rest,  if  he  wants  to 
stop  for  breath  or  to  wipe  the  drops  of  moisture  from  his 
brow.  These  importunate  beggars  never  cease  shouting 
and  clamouring  for  baksheesh,  and  are  so  persistently  annoy- 
ing that  they  seem  to  want  us  to  forget  the  gratitude  we 
owe  them  for  their  aid. 


74  THE    PYRAMIDS. 

At  length  we  reach  our  destination.     The  point  of  the 
Pyramid  has  long  since  crumbled  away,  and  we  stand  on 
a  tolerably  spacious  platform.      When  out   gasping  breath 
and  throbbing  pulses  have  partially  recovered  and  we  have 
paid  and  got  rid  of  the  Bedouin,  who  torment  us  to  exchange 
our  money  for  sham  antiquities,  we  look  down  upon  the 
vast  landscape,  and  the  longer  we  gaze  and  absorb  this  dis- 
tant view,  the  more  significant  and  the  more  incomparable 
it  appears.     Fertility  and   sterility,  life  and  death,  lie  no- 
where in  such  close  mingling  as  here.      There  in  the  east 
flows  the  broad  Nile  covered  with  lateen    sails,  and    like 
emerald  tapestry  are  the  fields  and  meadows,  gardens  and 
groves  of  palm-trees,  spread  along  its  shores.     The  villages, 
hidden  under  the  trees,  look  like  birds'  nests  among  green 
boughs,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  Mokattam  mountain,  which 
is  now  shining  with  golden  light  and  which  at  sunset  will 
reflect    the    rosy  and  violet    afterglow,  rise    the    thousand 
mosques  of  the   city   of   the    Caliphs,   overtopped    by  the 
citadel  and  by  those  slenderest  of  all  minarets  which  grace 
the  Mausoleum  of  Mohammed  Ali,  an  unmistakable  feat- 
ture  of  Cairo,  visible  from  the  farthest  distance.     Gardens 
and    trees    encircle    the    city  like  a  garland  around   some 
lovely  head.      Nowhere  is  there  to  be  found  a  more  beau- 
tiful picture   of  prosperity,  fertility,  and    life.     The  silver 
threads  of  the  canals  crossing  the  entire   luxuriant  valley 
appear  to  be  some  shining  fluid.     Unclouded  is  the  sky,  and 
yet  light  shadows  fall  across  the  fields.      These  are  flocks 
of  birds  which  find  plenty  of  food  and  drink  here.      How 
vast  is  the  bounty  of  God  !      How  beautiful  and  rich  is  the 
earth  ! 

The  Bedouin  have  left  us.     We  stand  alone  on  the  sum- 


THE   PYRAMIDS.  75 

mit„  All  is  still.  Not  a  sound  reaches  us  from  far  or 
near.  Turning  now  to  the  west,  the  eye  can  see  nothing 
but  pyramids  and  tombs,  rocks  and  sand  in  countless  num- 
ber. Not  a  blade,  not  a  bush  can  find  nutriment  in  this 
sterile  ground.  Yellow,  grey,  and  dull  brown  cover  every- 
thing, far  and  wide,  in   unbroken   monotony. 

Only  here  and  there  a  white  object  is  shining  amidst  the 
dust.  It  is  the  dried  skeleton  of  some  dead  animal.  Silent 
and  void,  the  enemy  to  everything  that  has  life  —  the 
desert  —  stretches  before  us.  Where  is  its  end  ?  In  days, 
weeks,  months  the  traveller  would  never  reach  it,  even  if 
he  escaped  alive  from  the  choking  sand.  Here,  if  any- 
where, Death  is  king ;  here,  where  the  Egyptians  saw  the 
sun  vanish  every  day  behind  the  wall  of  the  Libyan  moun- 
tains, begins  a  world  which  bears  the  same  comparison  to 
the  fruitful  lands  of  the  East  as  a  corpse  does  to  a  living 
man  happy  in  the  battle  and  joy  of  life.  A  more  silent 
burial-place  than  this  desert  exists  nowhere  on  this  earth ; 
and  so  tomb  after  tomb  was  erected  here,  and,  as  if  to  pre- 
serve the  secret  of  the  dead,  the  desert  has  enveloped  tombs 
and  bodies  with  its  veil  of  sand.  Here  the  terrors  of 
infinity  are  displayed.  Here  at  the  gate  of  the  future  life, 
where  eternity  begins,  man's  work  seems  to  have  eluded 
the  common  destiny  of  earthly  things  and  to  have  partaken 
of  immortality. 

"  Time  mocks  all  things,  but  the  Pyramids  mock  Time  " 
is  an  Arabian  proverb  which  has  been  repeated  thousands 
of  times. 

Cicerone  durch  das  alte  und  neue  JEgypten  (Stuttgart  und  Leipzig, 
1886). 


SAINT  PETER'S. 

CHARLES   DICKENS. 

WHEN  we  were  fairly  off  again,  we  began,  in  a  perfect 
fever,  to  strain  our  eyes  for  Rome  ;  and  when, 
after  another  mile  or  two,  the  Eternal  City  appeared,  at 
length,  in  the  distance,  it  looked  like  —  I  am  half  afraid  to 
write  the  word  —  like  LONDON  !  ! !  There  it  lay,  under 
a  thick  cloud,  with  innumerable  towers,  and  steeples,  and 
roofs  of  houses,  rising  up  into  the  sky,  and,  high  above  them 
all,  one  Dome.  I  swear,  that  keenly  as  I  felt  the  seeming 
absurdity  of  the  comparison,  it  was  so  like  London,  at  that 
distance,  that  if  you  could  have  shown  it  me  in  a  glass,  I 
should  have  taken  it  for  nothing  else. 

We  entered  the  Eternal  City  at  about  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  on  the  thirtieth  of  January,  by  the  Porta 
del  Popolo,  and  came  immediately  —  it  was  a  dark,  muddy 
day,  and  there  had  been  heavy  rain  —  on  the  skirts  of  the 
Carnival.  We  did  not,  then,  know  that  we  were  only 
looking  at  the  fag-end  of  the  masks,  who  were  driving 
slowly  round  and  round  the  Piazza,  until  they  could  find  a 
promising  opportunity  for  falling  into  the  stream  of  car- 
riages, and  getting,  in  good  time,  into  the  thick  of  the 
festivity ;  and  coming  among  them  so  abruptly,  all  travel- 


SAINT   PETER'S.  JJ 

stained  and  weary,  was  not  coming  very  well  prepared  to 
enjoy  the  scene.   .  .  . 

Immediately  on  going  out  next  day  we  hurried  off  to  St. 
Peter's.  It  looked  immense  in  the  distance  but  distinctly 
and  decidedly  small,  by  comparison,  on  a  near  approach. 
The  beauty  of  the  Piazza  in  which  it  stands,  with  its  clus- 
ters of  exquisite  columns  and  its  gushing  fountains  —  so 
fresh,  so  broad,  and  free  and  beautiful  —  nothing  can  exag- 
gerate. The  first  burst  of  the  interior,  in  all  its  expansive 
majesty  and  glory:  and  most  of  all,  the  looking  up  into  the 
Dome:  is  a  sensation  never  to  be  forgotten.  But,  there 
were  preparations  for  a  Festa ;  the  pillars  of  stately  marble 
were  swathed  in  some  impertinent  frippery  of  red  and 
yellow ;  the  altar,  and  entrance  to  the  subterranean  chapel : 
which  is  before  it,  in  the  centre  of  the  church  :  were  like  a 
goldsmith's  shop,  or  one  of  the  opening  scenes  in  a  very 
lavish  pantomime.  And  though  I  had  as  high  a  sense  of 
the  beauty  of  the  building  (I  hope)  as  it  is  possible  to  enter- 
tain, I  felt  no  very  strong  emotion.  I  have  been  infinitely 
more  affected  in  many  English  cathedrals  when  the  organ 
has  been  playing,  and  in  many  English  country  churches 
when  the  congregation  have  been  singing.  I  had  a  much 
greater  sense  of  mystery  and  wonder  in  the  Cathedral  of 
San  Mark,  at  Venice.   .   .  . 

On  Sunday  the  Pope  assisted  in  the  performance  of 
High  Mass  at  St.  Peter's.  The  effect  of  the  Cathedral  on 
my  mind,  on  that  second  visit,  was  exactly  what  it  was 
at  first,  and  what  it  remains  after  many  visits.  It  is  not 
religiously  impressive  or  affecting.  It  is  an  immense 
edifice,  with  no  one  point  for  the  mind  to  rest  upon ;  and 


78  SAINT    PETER'S. 

it  tires  itself  with  wandering  round  and  round.  The  very 
purpose  of  the  place  is  not  expressed  in  anything  you  see 
there,  unless  you  examine  its  details — and  all  examination 
of  details  is  incompatible  with  the  place  itself.  It  might 
be  a  Pantheon,  or  a  Senate  House,  or  a  great  architectural 
trophy,  having  no  other  object  than  an  architectural  tri- 
umph. There  is  a  black  statue  of  St.  Peter,  to  be  sure, 
under  a  red  canopy ;  which  is  larger  than  life,  and  which 
is  constantly  having  its  great  toe  kissed  by  good  Catholics. 
You  cannot  help  seeing  that :  it  is  so  very  prominent  and 
popular.  But  it  does  not  heighten  the  effect  of  the  temple 
as  a  work  of  art ;  and  it  is  not  expressive  —  to  me,  at 
least  —  of  its  high  purpose. 

A  large  space  behind  the  altar  was  fitted  up  with  boxes, 
shaped  like  those  at  the  Italian  Opera  in  England,  but  in 
their  decoration  much  more  gaudy.  In  the  centre  of  the 
kind  of  theatre  thus  railed  off  was  a  canopied  dais  with 
the  Pope's  chair  upon  it.  The  pavement  was  covered 
with  a  carpet  of  the  brightest  green;  and  what  with  this 
green,  and  the  intolerable  reds  and  crimsons,  and  gold 
borders  of  the  hangings,  the  whole  concern  looked  like 
a  stupendous  Bonbon.  On  either  side  of  the  altar  was 
a  large  box  for  lady  strangers.  These  were  filled  with 
ladies  in  black  dresses  and  black  veils.  The  gentlemen 
of  the  Pope's  guard,  in  red  coats,  leather  breeches,  and 
jack-boots,  guarded  all  this  reserved  space,  with  drawn 
swords  that  were  very  flashy  in  every  sense  ;  and,  from 
the  altar  all  down  the  nave,  a  broad  lane  was  kept  clear 
by  the  Pope's  Swiss  Guard,  who  wear  a  quaint  striped 
surcoat,  and    striped    tight    legs,  and    carry  halberds    like 


SAINT   PETER'S.  79 

those  which  are  usually  shouldered  by  those  theatrical 
supernumeraries,  who  never  can  get  off  the  stage  fast 
enough,  and  who  may  be  generally  observed  to  linger  in 
the  enemy's  camp  after  the  open  country,  held  by  the 
opposite  forces,  has  been  split  up  the  middle  by  a  convul- 
sion  of  Nature. 

I  got  upon  the  border  of  the  green  carpet,  in  company 
with  a  great  many  other  gentlemen  attired  in  black  (no 
other  passport  is  necessary),  and  stood  there,  at  my  ease, 
during  the  performance  of  mass.  The  singers  were  in 
a  crib  of  wire-work  (like  a  large  meat-safe  or  bird-cage) 
in  one  corner;  and  sung  most  atrociously.  All  about  the 
green  carpet  there  was  a  slowly-moving  crowd  of  people : 
talking  to  each  other :  staring  at  the  Pope  through  eye- 
glasses :  defrauding  one  another,  in  moments  of  partial 
curiosity,  out  of  precarious  seats  on  the  bases  of  pillars  : 
and  grinning  hideously  at  the  ladies.  Dotted  here  and 
there  were  little  knots  of  friars  (Francescani,  or  Cappuc- 
cini,  in  their  coarse  brown  dresses  and  peaked  hoods), 
making  a  strange  contrast  to  the  gaudy  ecclesiastics  of 
higher  degree,  and  having  their  humility  gratified  to  the 
utmost,  by  being  shouldered  about,  and  elbowed  right  and 
left,  on  all  sides.  Some  of  these  had  muddy  sandals  and 
umbrellas,  and  stained  garments  :  having  trudged  in  from 
the  country.  The  faces  of  the  greater  part  were  as  coarse 
and  heavy  as  their  dress  ;  their  dogged,  stupid,  monotonous 
stare  at  all  the  glory  and  splendour  having  something  in  it 
half  miserable,  and   half  ridiculous. 

Upon  the  green   carpet   itself,  and    gathered   round  the 
altar,  was  a  perfect  army  of  cardinals  and  priests,  in  red, 


80  SAINT    PETER'S. 

gold,  purple,  violet,  white,  and  fine  linen.  Stragglers 
from  these  went  to  and  fro  among  the  crowd,  conversing 
two  and  two,  or  giving  and  receiving  introductions,  and 
exchanging  salutations ;  other  functionaries  in  black  gowns, 
and  other  functionaries  in  court  dresses,  were  similarly 
engaged.  In  the  midst  of  all  these,  and  stealthy  Jesuits 
creeping  in  and  out,  and  the  extreme  restlessness  of  the 
Youth  of  England,  who  were  perpetually  wandering  about, 
some  few  steady  persons  in  black  cassocks,  who  had  knelt 
down  with  their  faces  to  the  wall,  and  were  poring  over 
their  missals,  became,  unintentionally;  a  sort  of  human 
man-traps,  and  with  their  own  devout  legs  tripped  up 
other  people's  by  the  dozen. 

There  was  a  great  pile  of  candles  lying  down  on  the 
floor  near  me,  which  a  very  old  man  in  a  rusty  black  gown 
with  an  open-work  tippet,  like  a  summer  ornament  for 
a  fire-place  in  tissue  paper,  made  himself  very  busy  in 
dispensing  to  all  the  ecclesiastics :  one  apiece.  They 
loitered  about  with  these  for  some  time,  under  their  arms 
like  walking-sticks,  or  in  their  hands  like  truncheons.  At 
a  certain  period  of  the  ceremony,  however,  each  carried 
his  candle  up  to  the  Pope,  laid  it  across  his  two  knees  to 
be  blessed,  took  it  back  again,  and  filed  ofF.  This  was 
done  in  a  very  attenuated  procession,  as  you  may  suppose, 
and  occupied  a  long  time.  Not  because  it  takes  long  to 
bless  a  candle  through  and  through,  but  because  there 
were  so  many  candles  to  be  blessed.  At  last  they  were 
all  blessed,  and  then  they  were  all  lighted  ;  and  then  the 
Pope  was  taken  up,  chair  and  all,  and  carried  round  the 
church.  .  .  . 


SAINT   PETER'S.  81 

On  Easter  Sunday,  as  well  as  on  the  preceding  Thurs- 
day, the  Pope  bestows  his  benediction  on  the  people  from 
the  balcony  in  front  of  St.  Peter's.  This  Easter  Sunday- 
was  a  day  so  bright  and  blue :  so  cloudless,  balmy,  won- 
derfully bright :  that  all  the  previous  bad  weather  ..van- 
ished from  the  recollection  in  a  moment.  I  had  seen  the 
Thursday's  benediction  dropping  damply  on  some  hundreds 
of  umbrellas,  but  there  was  not  a  sparkle  then  in  all  the 
hundred  fountains  of  Rome  —  such  fountains  as  they  are  ! 
—  and,  on  this  Sunday  morning,  they  were  running  dia- 
monds. The  miles  of  miserable  streets  through  which  we 
drove  (compelled  to  a  certain  course  by  the  Pope's  dra- 
goons :  the  Roman  police  on  such  occasions)  were  so  full 
of  colour,  that  nothing  in  them  was  capable  of  wearing 
a  faded  aspect.  The  common  people  came  out  in  their 
gayest  dresses ;  the  richer  people  in  their  smartest  vehicles ; 
Cardinals  rattled  to  the  church  of  the  Poor  Fisherman 
in  their  state  carriages  ;  shabby  magnificence  flaunted  its 
threadbare  liveries  and  tarnished  cocked-hats  in  the  sun  ; 
and  every  coach  in  Rome  was  put  in  requisition  for  the 
Great  Piazza  of  St.  Peter's. 

One  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  people  were  there  at 
least !  Yet  there  was  ample  room.  How  many  carriages 
were  there  I  don't  know  ;  yet  there  was  room  for  them 
too,  and  to  spare.  The  great  steps  of  the  church  were 
densely  crowded.  There  were  many  of  the  Contadini, 
from  Albano  (who  delight  in  red),  in  that  part  of  the 
square,  and  the  mingling  of  bright  colours  in  the  crowd 
was  beautiful.  Below  the  steps  the  troops  were  ranged. 
In  the  magnificent  proportions  of  the  place,  they  looked 


82  SAINT   PETER'S. 

like  a  bed  of  flowers.  Sulky  Romans,  lively  peasants 
from  the  neighbouring  country,  groups  of  pilgrims  from 
distant  parts  of  Italy,  sight-seeing  foreigners  of  all  nations, 
made  a  murmur  in  the  clear  air,  like  so  many  insects  ; 
and  high  above  them  all,  plashing  and  bubbling,  and  mak- 
ing rainbow  colours  in  the  light,  the  two  delicious  foun- 
tains  welled  and   tumbled  bountifully. 

A  kind  of  bright  carpet  was  hung  over  the  front  of  the 
balcony  ;  and  the  sides  of  the  great  window  were  be- 
decked with  crimson  drapery.  An  awning  was  stretched, 
too,  over  the  top,  to  screen  the  old  man  from  the  hot  rays 
of  the  sun.  As  noon  approached,  all  eyes  were  turned  up 
to  this  window.  In  due  time  the  chair  was  seen  approach- 
incr  to  the  front,  with  the  gigantic  fans  of  peacock's  feathers 
close  behind.  The  doll  within  it  (for  the  balcony  is  very 
high)  then  rose  up,  and  stretched  out  its  tiny  arms,  while 
all  the  male  spectators  in  the  square  uncovered,  and  some, 
but  not  by  any  means  the  greater  part,  kneeled  dowa 
The  guns  upon  the  ramparts  of  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo 
proclaimed,  next  moment,  that  the  benediction  was  given  { 
drums  beat;  trumpets  sounded;  arms  clashed;  and  the 
great  mass  below,  suddenly  breaking  into  smaller  heaps, 
and  scattering  here  and  there  in  rills,  was  stirred  like 
party-coloured   sand.  .  .  . 

But,  when  the  night  came  on,  without  a  cloud  to  dim  the 
full  moon,  what  a  sight  it  was  to  see  the  Great  Square  full 
once  more,  and  the  whole  church,  from  the  cross  to  the 
ground,  lighted  with  innumerable  lanterns,  tracing  out  the 
architecture,  and  winking  and  shining  all  round  the  colon- 
nade of  the  Piazza.     And  what  a  sense  of  exultation,  jo/, 


SAINT   PETER'S.  83 

delight,  it  was,  when  the  great  bell  struck  half  past  seven 
—  on  the  instant  —  to  behold  one  bright  red  mass  of  fire 
soar  gallantly  from  the  top  of  the  cupola  to  the  extremest 
summit  of  the  cross,  and,  the  moment  it  leaped  into  its 
place,  become  the  signal  of  a  bursting  out  of  countless 
lights,  as  great,  and  red,  and  blazing  as  itself,  from  every 
part  of  the  gigantic  church  ;  so  that  every  cornice,  capital, 
and  smal1est  ornament  of  stone  expressed  itself  in  fire  :  and 
the  black,  solid  groundwork  of  the  enormous  dome  seemed 
to  grow  transparent  as  an  egg-shell ! 

A  train  of  gunpowder,  an  electric  chain  —  nothing  could 
be  fired  more  suddenly  and  swiftly  than  this  second  illu- 
mination :  and  when  we  had  got  away,  and  gone  upon 
a  distant  height,  and  looked  toward  it  two  hours  after- 
ward, there  it  still  stood,  shining  and  glittering  in  the  calm 
night  like  a  jewel !  Not  a  line  of  its  proportions  wanting ; 
not  an  angle  blunted  ;  not  an  atom  of  its  radiance  lost. 

Picture!  from  Italy  (London,  1 845)1 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   STRASBURG. 

VICTOR   HUGO. 

I  ARRIVED  in  Nancy  Sunday  evening  at  seven 
o'clock ;  at  eight  the  diligence  started  again.  Was 
I  more  fatigued  ?  Was  the  road  better  ?  The  fact  is  I 
propped  myself  on  the  braces  of  the  conveyance  and  slept. 
Thus  I  arrived  in  Phalsbourg. 

I  woke  up  about  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  A  cool 
breeze  blew  upon  my  face  and  the  carriage  was  going  down 
the  incline  at  a  gallop,  for  we  were  descending  the  famous 
Saverne. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  impressions  of  my  life. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  the  mists  had  been  blown  to  the  four 
winds,  and  the  crescent  moon  slipped  rapidly  through  the 
clouds  and  sailed  freely  through  the  azure  space  like  a 
barque  on  a  little  lake.  A  breeze  which  came  from  the 
Rhine  made  the  trees,  which  bordered  the  road,  tremble. 
From  time  to  time  they  waved  aside  and  permitted  me  to 
see  an  indistinct  and  frightful  abyss :  in  the  foreground,  a 
forest  beneath  which  the  mountain  disappeared ;  below, 
immense  plains,  meandering  streams  glittering  like  streaks 
of  lightning;  and  in  the  background  a  dark,  indistinct, 
and  heavy  line  —  the  Black  Forest  —  a  magical  panorama 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   STRASBURG.  85 

beheld  by  moonlight.  Such  incomplete  visions  have,  per- 
haps, more  distinction  than  any  others.  They  are  dreams 
which  one  can  look  upon  and  feel.  I  knew  that  my  eyes 
rested  upon  France,  Germany,  and  Switzerland,  Strasburg 
with  its  spire,  the  Black  Forest  with  its  mountains,  and  the 
Rhine  with  its  windings  ;  I  searched  for  everything  and  I 
saw  nothing.  I  have  never  experienced  a  more  extraor- 
dinary sensation.  Add  to  that  the  hour,  the  journey,  the 
horses  dashing  down  the  precipice,  the  violent  noise  of  the 
wheels,  the  rattling  of  the  windows,  the  frequent  passage 
through  dark  woods,  the  breath  of  the  morning  upon  the 
mountains,  a  gentle  murmur  heard  through  the  valleys,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  sky,  and  you  will  understand  what  I  felt. 
Day  is  amazing  in  this  valley  ;   night  is  fascinating. 

The  descent  took  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Half  an  hour 
later  came  the  twilight  of  morning;  at  my  left  the  dawn 
quickened  the  lower  sky,  a  group  of  white  houses  with 
black  roofs  became  visible  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  the  blue 
of  day  began  to  overflow  the  horizon,  several  peasants 
passed  by  going  to  their  vines,  a  clear,  cold,  and  violet  light 
struggled  with  the  ashy  glimmer  of  the  moon,  the  constella- 
tions paled,  two  of  the  Pleiades  were  lost  to  sight,  the  three 
horses  in  our  chariot  descended  rapidly  towards  their  stable 
with  its  blue  doors,  it  was  cold  and  I  was  frozen,  for  it  had 
become  necessary  to  open  the  windows.  A  moment  after- 
wards the  sun  rose,  and  the  first  thing  it  showed  to  me  was 
the  village  notary  shaving  at  a  broken  mirror  under  a  red 
calico  curtain. 

A  league  further  on  the  peasants  became  more  pictur- 
esque and  the  waggons  magnificent ;  I  counted  in  one  thir- 


86  THE   CATHEDRAL  OF   STRASBURG. 

teen  mules  harnessed  far  apart  by  long  chains.     You  felt 
you  were  approaching  Strasburg,  the  old   German  city. 

Galloping  furiously,  we  traversed  Wasselonne,  a  long 
narrow  trench  of  houses  strangled  in  the  last  gorge  of  the 
Vosges  by  the  side  of  Strasburg.  There  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  one  facade  of  the  Cathedral,  surmounted  by 
three  round  and  pointed  towers  in  juxtaposition,  which 
the  movement  of  the  diligence  brought  before  my  vision 
brusquely  and  then  took  it  away,  jolting  it  about  as  if  it 
were  a  scene  in  the  theatre. 

Suddenly,  at  a  turn  in  the  road  the  mist  lifted  and  I  saw 
the  Miinster.  It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The 
enormous  Cathedral,  which  is  the  highest  building  that  the 
hand  of  man  has  made  since  the  great  Pyramid,  was  clearly 
defined  against  a  background  of  dark  mountains  whose 
forms  were  magnificent  and  whose  valleys  were  flooded 
with  sunshine.  The  work  of  God  made  for  man  and  the 
work  of  man  made  for  God,  the  mountain  and  the  Cathe~ 
dral  contesting  for  grandeur.  I  have  never  seen  anything 
more  imposing. 

Yesterday  I  visited  the  Cathedral.  The  Miinster  is 
truly  a  marvel.  The  doors  of  the  church  are  beautiful,  par- 
ticularly the  Roman  porch,  the  facade  contains  some  superb 
figures  on  horseback,  the  rose-window  is  beautifully  cut, 
and  the  entire  face  of  the  Cathedral  is  a  poem,  wisely  com- 
posed. But  the  real  triumph  of  the  Cathedral  is  the  spire. 
It  is  a  true  tiara  of  stone  with  its  crown  and  its  cross.  It 
is  a  prodigy  of  grandeur  and  delicacy.  I  have  seen 
Chartres,  and  I  have  seen  Antwerp,  but  Strasburg  pleases 
me  best. 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  STRASBURG.       87 

The  church  has  never  been  finished.  The  apse, 
miserably  mutilated,  has  been  restored  according  to  that 
imbecile,  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan,  of  the  necklace  fame. 
It  is  hideous.  The  window  they  have  selected  is  like 
a  modern  carpet.  It  is  ignoble.  The  other  windows, 
with  the  exception  of  some  added  panes,  are  beautiful, 
notably  the  great  rose-window.  All  the  church  is  shame- 
fully whitewashed ;  some  of  the  sculptures  have  been 
restored  with  some  little  taste.  This  Cathedral  has  been 
affected  by  all  styles.  The  pulpit  is  a  little  construction  of 
the  Fifteenth  Century,  of  florid  Gothic  of  a  design  and  style 
that  are  ravishing.  Unfortunately  they  have  gilded  it  in 
the  most  stupid  manner.  The  baptismal  font  is  of  the 
same  period  and  is  restored  in  a  superior  manner.  It  is  a 
vase  surrounded  by  foliage  in  sculpture,  the  most  marvellous 
in  the  world.  In  a  dark  chapel  at  the  side  there  are  two 
tombs.  One,  of  a  bishop  of  the  time  of  Louis  V.,  is  of 
that  formidable  character  which  Gothic  architecture  always 
expresses.  The  sepulchre  is  in  two  floors.  The  bishop, 
in  pontifical  robes  and  with  his  mitre  on  his  head,  is  lying 
in  his  bed  under  a  canopy  •,  he  is  sleeping.  Above  and  on 
the  foot  of  the  bed  in  the  shadow,  you  perceive  an  enormous 
stone  in  which  two  enormous  iron  rings  are  imbedded ;  that 
is  the  lid  of  the  tomb.  You  see  nothing  more.  The 
architects  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  showed  you  the  corpse 
(you  remember  the  tombs  of  Brou?);  those  of  the  Four- 
teenth concealed  it :  that  is  even  more  terrifying.  Nothing 
could  be  more  sinister  than  these  two  rings.  .  .  . 

The  tomb  of  which   I  have  spoken  is  in  the  left  arm 
of  the  cross.     In  the  right  arm  there  is  a  chapel,  which 

4— Vol.  3 


88  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   STRASBURG. 

scaffolding  prevented  me  from  seeing.  At  the  side  of  this 
ohapel  runs  a  balustrade  of  the  Fifteenth  Century,  leaning 
against  a  wall.  A  sculptured  and  painted  figure  leans 
against  this  balustrade  and  seems  to  be  admiring  a  pillar 
surrounded  by  statues  placed  one  over  the  other,  which  is 
directly  opposite  and  which  has  a  marvellous  effect.  Tra- 
dition says  that  this  figure  represents  the  first  architect  of 
the  Miinster — Erwyn  von  Steinbach.  .  .  . 

I  did  not  see  the  famous  astronomical  clock,  which  is  in 
the  nave  and  which  is  a  charming  little  building  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century.  They  were  restoring  it  and  it  was 
covered  with  a  scaffolding  of  boards. 

After  having  seen  the  church,  I  made  the  ascent  of  the 
steeple.  You  know  my  taste  for  perpendicular  trips.  I 
was  very  careful  not  to  miss  the  highest  spire  in  the  world. 
The  Miinster  of  Strasburg  is  nearly  five  hundred  feet  high. 
It  belongs  to  the  family  of  spires  which  are  open-worked 
stairways. 

It  is  delightful  to  wind  about  in  that  monstrous  mass  of 
stone,  filled  with  air  and  light  hollowed  out  like  ajoujou  de 
Dieppe,  a  lantern  as  well  as  a  pyramid,  which  vibrates  and 
palpitates  with  every  breath  of  the  wind.  I  mounted  as 
far  as  the  vertical  stairs.  As  I  went  up  I  met  a  visitor 
who  was  descending,  pale  and  trembling,  and  half-carried 
by  the  guide.  There  is,  however,  no  danger.  The  danger 
begins  where  I  stopped,  where  the  spire,  properly  so-called, 
begins.  Four  open-worked  spiral  stairways,  corresponding 
to  the  four  vertical  towers,  unroll  in  an  entanglement  of 
delicate,  slender,  and  beautifully-worked  stone,  supported 
by  the  spire,  every  angle  of  which  it  follows,  winding  until 


THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   STRASBURG.  89 

it  reaches  the  crown  at  about  thirty  feet  from  the  lantern 
surmounted  by  a  cross  which  forms  the  summit  of  the 
bell-tower.  The  steps  of  these  stairways  are  very  steep 
and  very  narrow,  and  become  narrower  and  narrower  as 
you  ascend,  until  there  is  barely  ledge  enough  on  which 
to  place  your  foot. 

In  this  way  you  have  to  climb  a  hundred  feet  which 
brings  you  four  hundred  feet  above  the  street.  There  are 
no  hand-rails,  or  such  slight  ones  that  they  are  not  worth 
speaking  about.  The  entrance  to  this  stairway  is  closed 
by  an  iron  grille.  They  will  not  open  this  grille  without 
a  special  permission  from  the  Mayor  of  Strasburg,  and 
nobody  is  allowed  to  ascend  it  unless  accompanied  by  two 
workmen  of  the  roof,  who  tie  a  rope  around  your  body, 
the  end  of  which  they  fasten,  in  proportion  as  you  ascend, 
to  the  various  iron  bars  which  bind  the  mullions.  Only  a 
week  ago  three  German  women,  a  mother  and  her  two 
daughters,  made  this  ascent.  Nobody  but  the  workmen 
of  the  roof,  who  repair  the  bell-tower,  are  allowed  to  go 
beyond  the  lantern.  Here  there  is  not  even  a  stairway, 
but  only  a  simple  iron  ladder. 

From  where  I  stopped  the  view  was  wonderful.  Stras- 
burg lies  at  your  feet,  —  the  old  town  with  its  dentellated 
gables,  and  its  large  roofs  encumbered  with  chimneys,  and 
its  towers  and  churches  —  as  picturesque  as  any  town  of 
Flanders.  The  III  and  the  Rhine,  two  lovely  rivers, 
enliven  this  dark  mass  with  their  plashing  waters,  so  clear 
and  green.  Beyond  the  walls,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
stretches  an  immense  country  richly  wooded  and  dotted 
with  villages.     The  Rhine,  which  flows  within  a  league 


90  THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   STRASBURC*. 

of  the  town,  winds  through  the  landscape.  In  walking 
around  this  bell-tower  you  see  three  chains  of  mountains  — 
the  ridges  of  the  Black  Forest  on  the  north,  the  Vosges  on 
the  west,  and  the  Alps  in  the  centre.   .   .  . 

The  sun  willingly  makes  a  festival  for  those  who  are 
upon  great  heights.  At  the  moment  I  reached  the  top  of 
the  Miinster,  it  suddenly  scattered  the  clouds,  with  which 
the  sky  had  been  covered  all  day,  and  turned  the  smoke  of 
the  city  and  all  the  mists  of  the  valley  to  rosy  flames,  while 
it  showered  a  golden  rain  on  Saverne,  whose  magnificent 
slope  I  saw  twelve  leagues  towards  the  horizon,  through 
the  most  resplendent  haze.  Behind  me  a  large  cloud 
dropped  rain  upon  the  Rhine  ;  the  gentle  hum  of  the  town 
was  brought  to  me  by  some  puffs  of  wind;  the  bells 
echoed  from  a  hundred  villages  ;  some  little  red  and  white 
fleas,  which  were  really  a  herd  of  cattle,  grazed  in 
the  meadow  to  the  right ;  other  little  blue  and  red  fleas, 
which  were  really  gunners,  performed  field-exercise  in  the; 
polygon  to  the  left ;  a  black  beetle,  which  was  the  dili- 
gence, crawled  along  the  road  to  Metz;  and  to  the  north 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  the  castle  of  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Baden  sparkled  in  a  flash  of  light  like  a  precious  stone.  I 
went  from  one  tower  to  another,  looking  by  turns  upon 
France,  Switzerland,  and  Germany,  all  illuminated  by  the 
same  ray  of  sunlight. 

Each  tower  looks  upon  a  different  country. 

Descending,  I  stopped  for  a  few  moments  at  one  of  the 
high  doors  of  the  tower-stairway.  On  either  side  of  this 
door  are  the  stone  effigies  of  the  two  architects  of  the 
Miinster.     These  two  great  poets  are  represented  as  kneel- 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  STRASBURG.       91 

ing  and  looking  behind  them  upward  as  if  they  were  lost 
in  astonishment  at  the  height  of  their  work.  I  put  myself 
in  the  same  posture  and  remained  thus  for  several  minutes. 
At  the  platform  they  made  me  write  my  name  in  a  book  j 
after  which  I  went  away. 

Le  Rhin  (Paris,  1S42). 


THE   SHWAY   DAGOHN. 

GWENDOLIN    TRENCH    GASCOIGNE. 

THE  "  Shway  Dagohn "  at  Rangoon,  or  Golden 
Pagoda,  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  venerated 
shrines  which  exists,  and  it  certainly  should  hold  a  high 
place  among  the  beautiful  and  artistic  monuments  of  the 
world,  for  it  is  exquisite  in  design  and  form.  Its  proportions 
and  height  are  simply  magnificent ;  wide  at  the  base,  it 
shoots  up  370  feet,  tapering  gradually  away  until  crowned 
by  its  airy  golden  Htee,  or  umbrella-shaped  roof.  This 
delicate  little  structure  is  studded  profusely  with  precious 
stones  and  hung  round  with  scores  of  tiny  gold  and  jewelled 
bells,  which,  when  swung  lightly  by  the  soft  breeze,  give 
out  the  tenderest  and  most  mystic  of  melodies.  The  Htee 
was  the  gift  of  King  Mindohn-Min,  and  it  is  said  to  have 
cost  the  enormous  sum  of  fifty  thousand  pounds. 

The  great  pagoda  is  believed  by  the  faithful  to  have  been 
erected  in  588  B.  C. ;  but  for  many  centuries  previous  to 
that  date  the  spot  where  the  pagoda  now  stands  was  held 
sacred,  as  the  relics  of  three  preceding  Buddhas  were  dis- 
covered there  when  the  two  Talaing  brothers  (the  founders 
of  the  Great  Pagoda)  brought  the  eight  holy  hairs  of  Buddha 
to  the  Thehngoothara  Hill,  the  spot  where  the  pagoda  now 
stands.     Shway  Yoe  (Mr.  Scott)  says  that  it  also  possesses 


THE    SHWAY   DAGOHN.  93 

in  the  Tapanahteik,  or  relic  chamber,  of  the  pagoda  the 
drinking  cup  of  Kaukkathan,  the  "thengan,"  or  robe,  of 
Gawnagohng,  and  the  "  toungway,"  or  staff,  of  Kathapah. 
It  is  therefore  so  holy  that  pilgrims  visit  this  shrine  from  far 
countries,  such  as  Siam,  and  even  the  Corea.  The  height 
of  the  pagoda  was  originally  only  twenty-seven  feet,  but  it 
has  attained  its  present  proportions  by  being  constantly 
encased  in  bricks.  It  is  a  marvellously  striking  structure, 
raising  up  its  delicate,  glittering  head  from  among  a  wondrous 
company  of  profusely  carved  shrines  and  small  temples, 
whose  colour  and  cunning  workmanship  make  fit  attendants 
to  this  stupendous  monument. 

It  is  always  a  delight  to  one's  eyes  to  gaze  upon  its 
glittering  spire,  always  a  fairy  study  of  artistic  enchantment ; 
but  perhaps  if  it  has  a  moment  when  it  seems  clothed  with 
peculiar  and  almost  ethereal,  mystic  attraction,  it  is  in  the 
early  morning  light,  when  the  air  has  been  bathed  by  dew- 
drops  and  is  of  crystal  clearness,  and  when  that  scorching 
Eastern  sun  has  only  just  begun  to  send  forth  his  burn- 
ing rays.  I  would  say  go  and  gaze  on  the  pagoda  at  the 
awakening  hour,  standing  there  on  the  last  spur  of  the  Pegu 
Hills,  and  framed  by  a  luxuriant  tropical  bower  of  foliage. 
The  light  scintillates  and  glistens  like  a  myriad  of  diamonds 
upon  its  golden  surface,  and  the  dreamy  beauty  of  its 
glorious  personality  seems  to  strike  one  dumb  with  deep, 
unspoken  reverence  and  admiration. 

Nestling  on  one  side  of  it  are  a  number  of  Pohn-gyee 
Kyoung  (monasteries)  and  rest-houses  for  pilgrims.  All 
these  are  quaint,  carved,  and  gilded  edifices  from  which 
you  see  endless  yellow-robed  monks  issuing.     The  monas- 


Q4  THE    SHWAY   DAGOHN. 

teries  situated  at  the  foot  of  the  great  pagoda  seem  peculiarly 
harmonious,  as  if  they  would  seek  protection  and  shelter 
beneath  the  wing  of  their  great  mother  church. 

The  pagoda  itself  is  approached  on  four  sides  by  long 
flights  of  steps,  but  the  southern  is  the  principal  entrance 
and  that  most  frequented.  At  the  base  of  this  stand  two 
gigantic  lions  made  of  brick  and  plastered  over,  and  also 
decorated  with  coloured  paint ;  their  office  is  to  guard  the 
sacred  place  from  nats  (evil  spirits)  and  demons,  the  fear  of 
which  seems  ever  to  haunt  the  Burman's  mind  and  be  a 
perpetual  and  endless  torment  to  him.  From  this  entrance 
the  steps  of  the  pagoda  rise  up  and  are  enclosed  by  a  series 
of  beautifully  carved  teak  roofs,  supported  by  wood  and 
masonry  pillars.  There  are  several  quaint  frescoes  of 
Buddha  and  saints  depicted  upon  the  ceiling  of  these  roofs, 
but  the  steps  which  they  cover  are  very  rugged  and  irregular. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  pilgrimage  to  ascend  them,  although  the 
foreigner  is  allowed  to  retain  his  shoes.  The  faithful,  of 
course,  leave  theirs  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

The  entrance  to  the  pagoda  inspires  one  with  a  maze  of 
conflicting  emotions  as  one  stands  before  it  ;  joy,  sorrow, 
pity,  wonder,  admiration  follow  so  quickly  upon  each  other 
that  they  mingle  into  an  indescribable  sense  of  bewilderment. 
The  first  sight  of  the  entrance  is  gorgeous,  full  of  Eastern 
colour  and  charm  ;  and  then  sorrow  and  horror  fill  one's 
heart,  as  one's  eyes  fall  suddenly  upon  the  rows  of  lepers 
who  line  the  way  to  the  holy  place.  Each  is  a  terrible, 
gruesome  sight,  a  mass  of  ghastly  corruption  and  disease, 
and  each  holds  out  with  maimed,  distorted  hands  a  little  tin 
vessel  for  your  alms. 


THE   SHWAY    DAGOHN.  95 

Why  should  Providence  allow  so  awful  an  affliction  as 
leprosy  to  fall  upon  His  creatures  ?  Could  any  crime, 
however  heinous,  be  foul  enough  for  such  a  punishment  ? 
These  are  the  thoughts  that  flit  through  your  brain;  and 
then,  as  you  pass  on,  wonder  takes  their  place  at  the  quaint 
beauty  of  the  edifice,  and  lastly  intense  and  wild  admiration 
takes  entire  possession  of  you,  and  all  is  forgotten  in  the 
glorious  nearness  of  the  great  Golden   Pagoda. 

On  either  side  of  the  rugged  steps  there  are  rows  of  most 
picturesque  little  stalls,  at  which  are  sold  endless  offerings 
to  be  made  to  Buddha  —  flowers  of  every  shade  and  hue, 
fruit,  glowing  bunches  of  yellow  plantains  and  pepia,  candles, 
wondrous  little  paper  devices  and  flags,  and,  lastly,  the  gold 
leaf,  which  the  faithful  delight  to  place  upon  the  beloved 
pagoda.  It  is  looked  upon  as  a  great  act  of  merit  to  expend 
money  in  thus  decorating  the  much  loved  and  venerated 
shrine.   .   .   . 

As  you  mount  slowly  up  the  steep  uneven  steps  of  the 
pagoda,  turn  for  a  moment  and  glance  back  at  the  scene. 
It  is  a  pagoda  feast,  and  the  place  is  crowded  with  the 
faithful  from  all  parts,  who  have  come  from  far  and  near  to 
present  offerings  and  perform  their  religious  observances. 
It  is  an  entrancing  picture,  a  marvel  of  colour  and  pictur- 
esqueness  —  see,  the  stalls  are  laid  out  with  their  brightest 
wares,  and  the  crowd  is  becoming  greater  every  moment. 
Look  at  that  group  of  laughing  girls,  they  have  donned  their 
most  brilliant  tamehns,  and  dainty  shawls,  and  the  flowers 
in  their  hair  are  arranged  with  infinite  coquettishness ; 
behind  them  are  coming  a  dazzling  company  of  young  men 
in  pasohs  of  every  indescribable  shade  ;  perchance  they  are 


g6  THE   SHWAY   DAGOHN". 

the  lovers  of  the  girls  whom  they  are  following  so  eagerly, 
and  they  are  bearing  fruit  and  flowers  to  present  to  Buddna. 
Beyond  them  again  are  some  yellow-robed  Pohn-gyees ; 
they  are  supposed  to  shade  their  eyes  from  looking  upon 
women  with  their  large  lotus-shaped  fans,  but  to-day  they  are 
gazing  about  them  more  than  is  permitted,  and  are  casting 
covert  glances  of  admiration  on  some  of  those  dainty  little 
maidens.  Behind  them  again  are  a  white-robed  company, 
they  are  nuns,  and  their  shroud-like  garments  flow  around 
them  in  long  graceful  folds.  Their  hair  is  cut  short,  and 
they  have  not  so  joyous  an  expression  upon  their  faces  as 
the  rest  of  the  community,  and  they  toil  up  the  steep  steps 
a  trifle  wearily.  Behind  them  again  are  a  little  toddling 
group  of  children,  with  their  little  hands  full  of  bright 
glowing  flowers  and  fruits. 

Shall  we  follow  in  the  crowd  and  see  where  the  steps 
lead  ?  It  is  a  wondrous  study,  the  effects  of  light  and 
shade ;  look  at  that  sunbeam  glinting  in  through  the  roof 
and  laying  golden  fingers  on  the  Pohn-gyees'  yellow  robes, 
and  turning  the  soft-hued  fluttering  silks  into  brilliant 
luminous  spots  of  light. 

At  last  we  have  arrived  at  the  summit!  Let  us  pause 
and  take  breath  morally  and  physically  before  walking 
round  the  great  open-paved  space  in  the  centre  of  which 
rises  the  great  and  glorious  pagoda.  There  it  stands  tow- 
ering up  and  up,  as  though  it  would  fain  touch  the  blue 
heaven;  it  is  surrounded  by  a  galaxy  of  smaller  pagodas, 
which  seem  to  be  clustering  lovingly  near  their  great  high 
priest ;  around  these  again  are  large  carved  kneeling 
elephants,  and  deep  urn-shaped  vessels,  which  are  placed 


THE    SHWAY   DAGOHN.  97 

there  to  receive  the  offerings  of  food  brought  to  Buddha. 
The  crows  and  the  pariah  dogs  which  haunt  the  place  will 
soon  demolish  these  devout  offerings,  and  grow  fat  upon 
them  as  their  appearance  testifies ;  but  this,  curiously,  does 
not  seem  in  the  least  to  annoy  the  giver.  He  has  no  objec- 
tion to  seeing  a  fat  crow  or  a  mangy  dog  gorging  itself 
upon  his  offering,  as  the  feeding  of  any  animal  is  an  act  of 
merit,  which  is  the  one  thing  of  importance  to  a  Burman. 
The  more  acts  of  merit  that  he  can  accomplish  in  this  life, 
the  more  rapid  his  incarnations  will  be  in  the  next. 

There  are  draped  about  the  small  golden  pagodas  and 
round  the  base  of  the  large  one  endless  quaint  pieces  of 
woven  silk  j  these  are  offerings  from  women,  and  must  be 
completed  in  one  night  without  a  break. 

On  the  outer  circle  of  this  large  paved  space  are  a  multi- 
tude of  shrines,  enclosing  hundreds  of  images  of  Buddha. 
You  behold  Buddha  standing,  you  behold  him  sitting,  you 
behold  him  reclining ;  you  see  him  large,  you  see  him 
small,  you  see  him  medium  size ;  you  see  him  in  brass,  in 
wood,  in  stone,  and  in  marble.  Many  of  these  statues  are 
simply  replicas  of  each  other,  but  some  differ  slightly,  though 
the  cast  of  features  is  always  the  same,  a  placid,  amiable, 
benign  countenance,  with  very  long  lobes  to  the  ears,  which 
in  Burmah  are  supposed  to  indicate  the  great  truthfulness 
of  the  person  who  possesses  them.  Most  of  the  images 
have  suspended  over  them  the  royal  white  umbrella,  which 
was  one  of  the  emblems  of  Burma,  and  only  used  in 
Thebaw's  time  to  cover  Buddha,  the  king,  and  the  lord 
white   elephant. 

Among  Pagodas  and  Fair  Ladies  (London,  1896). 


Q 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OP   SIENA. 

JOHN    ADDINGTON    SYMONDS. 

UITTING  the  Palazzo,  and  threading  narrow 
streets,  paved  with  brick  and  overshadowed  with 
huge  empty  palaces,  we  reach  the  highest  of  the 
three  hills  on  which  Siena  stands,  and  see  before  us  the 
Duomo.  This  church  is  the  most  purely  Gothic  of  all 
Italian  cathedrals  designed  by  national  architects.  Together 
with  that  of  Orvieto,  it  stands  to  show  what  the  unassisted 
genius  of  the  Italians  could  produce,  when  under  the 
empire  of  mediaeval  Christianity  and  before  the  advent  of 
the  neopagan  spirit.  It  is  built  wholly  of  marble,  and 
overlaid,  inside  and  out,  with  florid  ornaments  of  exquisite 
beauty.  There  are  no  flying  buttresses,  no  pinnacles,  no 
deep  and  fretted  doorways,  such  as  form  the  charm  of 
French  and  English  architecture  ;  but  instead  of  this,  the 
lines  of  party-coloured  marbles,  the  scrolls  and  wreaths  of 
foliage,  the  mosaics  and  the  frescoes  which  meet  the  eye  in 
every  direction,  satisfy  our  sense  of  variety,  producing  most 
agreeable  combinations  of  blending  hu;s  and  harmoniously 
connected  forms.  The  chief  fault  which  offends  against 
our  Northern  taste  is  the  predominance  of  horizontal  lines, 
both  in  the  construction  of  the  facade,  and  also  in  the 
internal  decoration.     This   single    fact    sufficiently   proves 


THE    CATHEDRAL   OF    SIENA.  99 

that  the  Italians  had  never  seized  the  true  idea  of  Gothic 
or  aspiring  architecture.  But,  allowing  for  this  original 
defect,  we  feel  that  the  Cathedral  of  Siena  combines  solem- 
nity and  splendour  to  a  degree  almost  unnvalledo  Its  dome 
is  another  point  in  which  the  instinct  of  Italian  architects 
has  led  them  to  adhere  to  the  genius  of  their  ancestral  art 
rather  than  to  follow  the  principles  of  Gothic  design.  The 
dome  is  Etruscan  and  Roman,  native  to  the  soil,  and  only 
by  a  kind  of  violence  adapted  to  the  character  of  pointed 
architecture.  Yet  the  builders  of  Siena  have  shown  what  a 
glorious  element  of  beauty  might  have  been  added  to  our 
Northern  cathedrals,  had  the  idea  of  infinity  which  our 
ancestors  expressed  by  long  continuous  lines,  by  complex- 
ities of  interwoven  aisles,  and  by  multitudinous  aspiring 
pinnacles,  been  carried  out  into  vast  spaces  of  aerial  cupolas, 
completing  and  embracing  and  covering  the  whole  like 
heaven.  The  Duomo,  as  it  now  stands,  forms  only  part 
of  a  vast  original  design.  On  entering  we  are  amazed  to 
hear  that  this  church,  which  looks  so  large,  from  the  beauty 
of  its  proportions,  the  intricacy  of  its  ornaments,  and  the 
interlacing  of  its  columns,  is  but  the  transept  of  the  old 
building  lengthened  a  little,  and  surmounted  by  a  cupola 
and  campanile.  Yet  such  is  the  fact.  Soon  after  its  com- 
mencement a  plague  swept  over  Italy,  nearly  depopulated 
Siena,  and  reduced  the  town  to  penury  for  want  of  men. 
The  Cathedral,  which,  had  it  been  accomplished,  would 
have  surpassed  all  Gothic  churches  south  of  the  Alps, 
remained  a  ruin.  A  fragment  of  the  nave  still  stands, 
enabling  us  to  judge  of  its  extent.  The  eastern  wall  joins 
what  was  to  have  been  the  transept,  measuring  the  mighty 


100  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   SIENA. 

space  which  would  have  been  enclosed  by  marble  vaults 
and  columns  delicately  wrought.  The  sculpture  on  the 
eastern  door  shows  with  what  magnificence  the  Sienese 
designed  to  ornament  this  portion  of  their  temple ;  while 
the  southern  facade  rears  itself  aloft  above  the  town,  like 
those  high  arches  which  testify  to  the  past  splendour  of 
Glastonbury  Abbey ;  but  the  sun  streams  through  the 
broken  windows,  and  the  walls  are  encumbered  with  hovels 
and  stables  and  the  refuse  of  surrounding  streets.  One 
most  remarkable  feature  of  the  internal  decoration  is  a  line 
of  heads  of  the  Popes  carried  all  round  the  church  above  the 
lower  arches.  Larger  than  life,  white  solemn  faces,  they 
lean,  each  from  his  separate  niche,  crowned  with  the  triple 
tiara,  and  labelled  with  the  name  he  bore.  Their  accumu- 
lated majesty  brings  the  whole  past  history  of  the  Church 
into  the  presence  of  its  living  members.  A  bishop  walking 
up  the  nave  of  Siena  must  feel  as  a  Roman  felt  among  the 
waxen  images  of  ancestors  renowned  in  council  or  in  war. 
Of  course  these  portraits  are  imaginary  for  the  most  part; 
but  the  artists  have  contrived  to  vary  their  features  and 
expression  with  great  skill. 

Not  less  peculiar  to  Siena  is  the  pavement  of  the  Cathe- 
dral. It  is  inlaid  with  a  kind  of  tarsia  work  in  stone,  not 
unlike  that  which  Baron  Triqueti  used  in  his  "  Marmor 
Homericum  "  —  less  elaborately  decorative,  but  even  more 
artistic  and  subordinate  to  architectural  effect  than  the 
baron's  mosaic.  Some  of  these  compositions  are  as  old  as 
the  cathedral  •,  others  are  the  work  of  Beccafumi  and  his 
scholars.  They  represent,  in  the  liberal  spirit  of  mediaeval 
Christianity,  the  history  of  the  Church  before  the  Incarna- 


THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   3IEHA  10) 

tion.  Hermes  Trismegistus  and  the  Sibyls  meet  us  at  the 
doorway  :  in  the  body  of  the  church  we  find  the  mighty 
deeds  of  the  old  Jewish  heroes  —  of  Moses  and  Samson 
and  Joshua  and  Judith.  Independently  of  the  artistic 
beauty  of  the  designs,  of  the  skill  with  which  men  and 
horses  are  drawn  in  the  most  difficult  attitudes,  of  the 
dignity  of  some  single  figures,  and  of  the  vigour  and  sim- 
plicity of  the  larger  compositions,  a  special  interest  attaches 
to  this  pavement  in  connection  with  the  twelfth  canto  of 
the  "  Purgatorio."  Did  Dante  ever  tread  these  stones  and 
meditate  upon  their  sculptured  histories  ?  That  is  what  we 
cannot  say ;  but  we  read  how  he  journeyed  through  the 
plain  of  Purgatory  with  eyes  intent  upon  its  storied  floor, 
how  "  morti  i  morti,  e  i  vivi  parean  vivi,"  how  he  saw 
"  Nimrod  at  the  foot  of  his  great  work,  confounded,  gazing 
at  the  people  who  were  proud  with  him."  The  strong  and 
simple  outlines  of  the  pavement  correspond  to  the  few 
words  of  the  poet.  Bending  over  these  pictures  and  trying 
to  learn  their  lesson,  with  the  thought  of  Dante  in  our 
mind,  the  tones  of  an  organ,  singularly  sweet  and  mellow, 
fall  upon  our  ears,  and  we  remember  how  he  heard  the  Tt 
Deum  sung  within  the  gateway  of  repentance. 

Sketches  in  Italy  and  Greece  (London,  1874). 


THE   TOWN   HALL   OF   LOUVAIN. 

GRANT   ALLEN. 

LOUVAIN  is  in  a  certain  sense  the  mother  city  of 
Brussels.  Standing  on  its  own  little  navigable  river, 
the  Dyle,  it  was,  till  the  end  of  the  Fourteenth  Century, 
the  capital  of  the  Counts  and  of  the  Duchy  of  Brabant. 
It  had  a  large  population  of  weavers,  engaged  in  the  cloth 
trade.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  weavers  formed  the  chief 
bulwark  of  freedom  in  the  population.  In  1378,  however, 
after  a  popular  rising,  Duke  Wenseslaus  besieged  and 
conquered  the  city ;  and  the  tyrannical  sway  of  the  nobles, 
whom  he  re-introduced,  aided  by  the  rise  of  Ghent,  or 
later,  of  Antwerp,  drove  away  trade  from  the  city.  Many 
of  the  weavers  emigrated  to  Holland  and  England,  where 
they  helped  to  establish  the  woollen  industry.   .   .  . 

As  you  emerge  from  the  station,  you  come  upon  a  small 
Place,  adorned  with  a  statue  (by  Geefs)  of  Sylvain  van  de 
Weyer,  a  revolutionary  of  1830,  and  long  Belgian  minister 
to  England.  Take  the  long  straight  street  up  which  the 
statue  looks.  This  leads  direct  to  the  Grand'  Place,  the 
centre  of  the  town,  whence  the  chief  streets  radiate  in 
every  direction,  the  ground-plan  recalling  that  of  a  Roman 
city. 


THE   TOWN   HALL   OF   LOUVAIN.  103 

The  principal  building  in  the  Grand'  Place  is  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  standing  out  with  three  sides  visible  from  the 
Place,  and  probably  the  finest  civic  building  in  Belgium. 
It  is  of  very  florid  late-Gothic  architecture,  between  1448 
and  1463.  Begin  first  with  the  left  facade,  exhibiting 
three  main  storeys,  with  handsome  Gothic  windows.  Above 
come  a  gallery,  and  then  a  gable-end,  flanked  by  octagonal 
turrets,  and  bearing  a  similar  turret  on  its  summit.  In 
this  centre  of  the  gable  is  a  little  projecting  balcony  of  the 
kind  so  common  on  Belgic  civic  buildings.  The  archi- 
tecture of  the  niches  and  turrets  is  of  very  fine  florid 
Gothic,  in  better  taste  than  that  at  Ghent  of  nearly  the 
same  period.  The  statues  which  fill  the  niches  are  modern. 
Those  of  the  first  storey  represent  personages  of  impor- 
tance in  the  local  history  of  the  city ;  those  of  the  second, 
the  various  mediaeval  guilds  or  trades ;  those  of  the  third, 
the  Counts  of  Louvain  and  Dukes  of  Brabant  of  all  ages. 
The  bosses  or  corbels  which  support  the  statues,  are 
carved  with  scriptural  scenes  in  high  relief.  I  give  the 
subjects  of  a  few  (beginning  Left) :  the  reader  must 
decipher  the  remainder  for  himself.  The  Court  of 
Heaven  :  The  Fall  of  the  Angels  into  the  visible  Jaws 
of  Hell :  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  Garden :  The  Expul- 
sion from  Paradise :  The  Death  of  Abel,  with  quaint 
rabbits  escaping :  The  Drunkenness  of  Noah :  Abraham 
and  Lot :   etc. 

The  main  facade  has  an  entrance  staircase,  and  two 
portals  in  the  centre,  above  which  are  figures  of  St.  Peter 
(Left)  and  Our  Lady  and  Child  (Right),  the  former  in 
compliment  to  the  patron  of  the  church  opposite.     This 


104  THE   TOWN   HALL   OF   LOUVAIN. 

facade  has  three  storeys,  decorated  with  Gothic  windows, 
and  capped  by  a  gallery  parapet,  above  which  rises  the 
high-pitched  roof,  broken  by  several  quaint  small  windows. 
At  either  end  are  the  turrets  of  the  gable,  with  steps  to 
ascend  them.  The  rows  of  statues  represent  as  before  (in 
four  tiers),  persons  of  local  distinction,  mediaeval  guilds 
and  the  Princes  who  have  ruled  Brabant  and  Louvain. 
Here  again  the  sculptures  beneath  the  bosses  should  be 
closely  inspected.  Among  the  most  conspicuous  are  the 
Golden  Calf,  the  Institution  of  Sacrifices  in  the  Taber- 
nacle, Balaam's  Ass,  Susannah  and  the  Elders,  etc. 

The  gable-end  to  the  Right,  ill  seen  from  the  narrow 
street,  resembles  in  its  features  the  one  opposite  it,  but 
this  facade  is  even  finer  than  the  others. 

The  best  general  view  is  obtained  from  the  door  of 
St.  Pierre,  or  near  either  corner  of  the  Place  directly 
opposite. 

Cities  of  Belgium  (London,  1897). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   SEVILLE. 

EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS. 

THE  Cathedral  of  Seville  is  isolated  in  the  centre  of 
a  large  square,  yet  its  grandeur  may  be  measured 
by  a  single  glance.  I  immediately  thought  of  the  famous 
phrase  in  the  decree  uttered  by  the  Chapter  of  the  primitive 
church  on  July  8,  140 I,  regarding  the  building  of  the  new 
Cathedral :  "  Let  us  build  a  monument  which  shall  cause 
posterity  to  think  we  must  have  been  mad."  These 
reverend  canons  did  not  fail  in  their  intention.  But  to 
fully  appreciate  this  we  must  enter.  The  exterior  of  the 
Cathedral  is  imposing  and  magnificent ;  but  less  so  than 
the  interior.  There  is  no  facade :  a  high  wall  encloses  the 
building  like  a  fortress.  It  is  useless  to  turn  and  gaze 
upon  it,  for  you  will  never  succeed  in  impressing  a  single 
outline  upon  your  mind,  which,  like  the  introduction  to 
a  book,  will  give  you  a  clear  idea  of  the  work ;  you  admire 
and  you  exclaim  more  than  once :  "  It  is  immense  !  "  but 
you  are  not  satisfied  ;  and  you  hasten  to  enter  the  church, 
hoping  that  you  may  receive  there  a  more  complete  senti- 
ment of  admiration. 

On  entering  you  are  stunned,  you  feel  as  if  you  are  lost 
in  an  abyss ;  and  for  several  moments  you  can  only  let 
your  glance  wander  over  these  immense  curves  in  this  im- 
mense space  to  assure  yourself  that  your  eyes  and  your 


106  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   SEVILLE. 

imagination  are  not  deceiving  you.  Then  you  approach 
a  column,  measure  it,  and  contemplate  the  others  from 
a  distance :  they  are  as  large  as  towers  and  yet  they  seem 
so  slender  that  you  tremble  to  think  they  support  the 
edifice.  With  a  rapid  glance  you  look  at  them  from  pave- 
ment to  ceiling  and  it  seems  as  if  you  could  almost  count 
the  moments  that  it  takes  the  eye  to  rise  with  them. 
There  are  five  naves,  each  one  of  which  might  constitute 
a  church.  In  the  central  one  another  cathedral  could 
easily  lift  its  high  head  surmounted  by  a  cupola  and  bell- 
tower.  Altogether  there  are  sixty-eight  vaults,  so  bold 
that  it  seems  to  you  they  expand  and  rise  very  slowly 
while  you  are  looking  at  them.  Everything  in  this  Cathe- 
dral is  enormous.  The  principal  altar,  placed  in  the  centre 
of  the  great- nave,  is  so  high  that  it  almost  touches  the 
vaulted  ceiling,  and  seems  to  be  an. altar  constructed  for 
giant  priests  to  whose  knees  only  would  ordinary  altars 
reach  ;  the  paschal  candle  seems  like  the  mast  of  a  ship  ; 
and  the  bronze  candlestick  which  holds  it,  is  a  museum  of 
sculpture  and  carving  which  would  in  itself  repay  a  day's 
visit.  The  chapels  are  worthy  of  the  church,  for  in  them 
are  lavished  the  chefs  d'ceuvre  of  sixty-seven  sculptors  and 
thirty-eight  painters.  Montanes,  Zurbaran,  Murillo,  Valdes, 
Herrera,  Boldan,  Roelas,  and  Campana  have  left  there 
a  thousand  immortal  traces  of  their  hands.  St.  Ferdi- 
nand's Chapel,  containing  the  sepulchres  of  this  king  and 
of  his  wife  Beatrice,  of  Alphonso  the  Wise,  the  celebrated 
minister  Florida  Blanca,  and  other  illustrious  personages, 
is  one  of  the  richest  and  most  beautiful.  The  body  of 
King  Ferdinand,  who  delivered  Seville  from  the  dominion 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   SEVILLE.  10/ 

of  the  Arabs,  clothed  in  his  military  dress,  with  the  crown 
and  the  royal  mantle,  reposes  in  a  crystal  casket  covered 
with  a  veil.  On  one  side  is  the  sword  which  he  carried 
on  the  day  of  his  entrance  into  Seville  ;  and  on  the  other 
his  staff,  the  symbol  of  command.  In  this  same  chapel 
a  little  ivory  wand  which  the  king  carried  to  the  wars, 
and  other  relics  of  great  value  are  preserved.  In  the 
other  chapels  there  are  large  marble  altars,  Gothic  tombs 
and  statues  in  stone,  in  wood  and  silver,  enclosed  in  large 
caskets  of  silver  with  their  bodies  and  hands  covered  with 
diamonds  and  rubies ;  and  some  marvellous  pictures,  which, 
unfortunately,  the  feeble  light,  falling  from  the  high  win- 
dows, does  not  illuminate  sufficiently  to  let  the  admirer  see 
their  entire  beauty. 

But  after  a  detailed  examination  of  these  chapels,  paint- 
ings, and  sculptures,  you  always  return  to  admire  the 
Cathedral's  grand,  and,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  it, 
formidable  aspect.  After  having  glanced  towards  those 
giddy  heights,  the  eye  and  mind  are  fatigued  by  the  effort. 
And  the  abundant  images  correspond  to  the  grandeur  of 
the  basilica ;  immense  angels  and  monstrous  heads  of 
cherubim  with  wings  as  large  as  the  sails  of  a  ship  and 
enormous  floating  mantles  of  blue.  The  impression  that 
this  Cathedral  produces  is  entirely  religious,  but  it  is  not 
sad  ;  it  creates  a  feeling  which  carries  the  mind  into  the 
infinite  space  and  silence  where  Leopardi's  thoughts  were 
plunged  ;  it  creates  a  sentiment  full  of  desire  and  boldness  ; 
it  produces  that  shiver  which  is  experienced  at  the  brink 
of  a  precipice, — that  distress  and  confusion  of  great 
thoughts,  that  divine  terror  of  the  infinite.  .  .  . 


108  THE    CATHEDRAL   OF   SEVILLE. 

It  is  needless  to  speak  of  the  Feasts  of  Holy  Week  :  they 
are  famous  throughout  the  world,  and  people  from  all  parts 
of  Europe  still  flock  to  them. 

But  the  most  curious  privilege  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Seville  is  the  dance  de  los  seises,  which  is  performed  every 
evening  at  twilight  for  eight  consecutive  days  after  the 
Feast  of  Corpus   Domini. 

As  I  found  myself  in  Seville  at  this  time  I  went  to  see 
it.  From  what  I  had  heard  I  expected  a  scandalous 
pasquinade,  and  I  entered  the  church  quite  ready  to  be 
indignant  at  the  profanation  of  a  holy  place.  The  church 
was  dark  ;  only  the  large  altar  was  illuminated,  and  a  crowd 
of  women  kneeled  before  it.  Several  priests  were  sitting 
to  the  right  and  left  of  the  altar.  At  a  signal  given  by  one 
of  the  priests,  sweet  music  from  violins  broke  the  profound 
silence  of  the  church,  and  two  rows  of  children  moved 
forward  in  the  steps  of  a  contre-danse,  and  began  to  separate, 
interlace,  break  away,  and  again  unite  with  a  thousand 
graceful  turnings  ;  then  everybody  joined  in  a  melodious 
and  charming  hymn  which  resounded  in  the  vast  Cathedral 
like  a  choir  of  angels'  voices  ;  and  in  the  next  moment 
they  began  to  accompany  their  dance  and  song  with 
castanets.  No  religious  ceremony  ever  touched  me  like 
this.  It  is  out  of  the  question  to  describe  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  these  little  voices  under  the  immense  vaults, 
these  little  creatures  at  the  foot  of  this  enormous  altar, 
this  modest  and  almost  humble  dance,  this  antique  cos- 
tume, this  kneeling  multitude,  and  the  surrounding  dark- 
ness. I  went  out  of  the  church  with  as  serene  a  soul  as 
if  I  had  been  praying.  .  . 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   SEVILLE.  109 

The  famous  Giralda  of  the  Cathedral  of  Seville  is  an 
ancient  Arabian  tower,  constructed,  according  to  tradition, 
in  the  year  one  thousand,  on  the  plan  of  the  architect 
Huevar,  the  inventor  of  algebra ;  it  was  modified  in  its 
upper  part  after  the  expulsion  of  the  Moors  and  converted 
into  a  Christian  bell-tower,  yet  it  has  always  preserved 
its  Arabian  air  and  has  always  been  prouder  of  the  vanished 
standard  of  the  conquered  race  than  the  Cross  which  the 
victors  have  placed  upon  it.  This  monument  produces 
a  novel  sensation  :  it  makes  you  smile :  it  is  as  enormous 
and  imposing  as  an  Egyptian  pyramid  and  at  the  same 
time  as  gay  and  graceful  as  a  garden  kiosk.  It  is  a  square 
brick  tower  of  a  beautiful  rose-colour,  bare  up  to  a  certain 
height,  and  then  ornamented  all  the  way  up  by  little 
Moorish  twin-windows  displayed  here  and  there  at  hap- 
hazard and  provided  with  little  balconies  which  produce 
a  very  pretty  effect.  Upon  the  story,  where  formerly  a 
roof  of  various  colours  rested,  surmounted  by  an  iron  shaft 
which  supported  four  enormous  golden  balls,  the  Christian 
bell-tower  rises  in  three  stories;  the  first  containing  the 
bells,  the  second  enclosed  by  a  balustrade,  and  the  third 
forming  a  kind  of  cupola  on  which  turns,  like  a  weather- 
vane,  a  statue  of  gilt  bronze  representing  Faith,  holding 
a  palm  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  standard  visible  at 
a  long  distance  from  Seville,  and  which,  when  touched  by 
the  sun,  glitters  like  an  enormous  ruby  imbedded  in  the 
crown  of  a  Titan  king  who  rules  the  entire  valley  of 
Andalusia  with  his  glance. 

La  Spagna  (Florence,  1873). 


WINDSOR   CASTLE. 

WILLIAM    HEPWORTH    DIXON. 

A  STEEP  chalk  bluff,  starting  from  a  river  margin  with 
the  heave  and  dominance  of  a  tidal  wave  is  Castle 
Hill,  now  crowned  and  mantled  by  the  Norman  keep,  the 
royal  house,  the  chapel  of  St.  George,  and  the  depending 
gardens,  terraces,  and  slopes. 

Trees  beard  the  slope  and  tuft  the  ridge.  Live  waters 
curl  and  murmur  at  the  base.  In  front,  low-lying  meadows 
curtsey  to  the  royal  hill.  Outward,  on  the  flanks,  to  east 
and  west,  run  screens  of  elm  and  oak,  of  beech  and  poplar ; 
here,  sinking  into  clough  and  dell :  there  mounting  up  to 
smiling  sward  and  wooded  knoll.  Far  in  the  rear  lie 
forest  glades,  with  walks  and  chases,  losing  themselves  in 
distant  heath  and  holt.  By  the  edges  of  dripping  wells, 
which  bear  the  names  of  queen  and  saint,  stand  aged  oaks, 
hoary  with  time  and  rich  in  legend  :  patriarchs  of  the 
forest,  wedded  to  the  readers  of  all  nations  by  immortal 
verse. 

A  gentle  eminence,  the  Castle  Hill  springs  from  the 
bosom  of  a  typical  English  scene. 

Crowning  a  verdant  ridge,  the  Norman  keep  looks 
northward  on   a  wide   and   wooded    level,   stretching   over 


WINDSOR   CASTLE.  Ill 

many  shires,  tawny  with  corn  and  rye,  bright  with  abundant 
pasture,  and  the  red  and  white  of  kine  and  sheep,  while 
here  again  the  landscape  is  embrowned  with  groves  and 
parks.  The  stream  curves  softly  past  your  feet,  uncon- 
scious of  the  capital,  unruffled  by  the  tide.  Beyond  the 
river  bank  lie  open  meadows,  out  of  which  start  up  the 
pinnacles  of  Eton  College,  the  Plantagenet  school  and 
cloister,  whence  for  twenty-one  reigns  the  youth  of  England 
have  been  trained  for  court  and  camp,  the  staff,  the  mitre, 
and  the  marble  chair.  Free  from  these  pinnacles,  the  eye 
is  caught  by  darksome  clump,  and  antique  tower,  and 
distant  height ;  each  darksome  clump  a  haunted  wood, 
each  antique  tower  an  elegy  in  stone,  each  distant  height 
a  storied  and  romantic  hill.  That  darksome  clump  is 
Burnham  wood ;  this  antique  tower  is  Stoke ;  yon  distant 
heights  are  Hampstead  Heath  and  Richmond  Park.  Nearer 
to  the  eye  stand  Farnham  Royal,  Upton  park,  and  Langley 
Marsh  ;  the  homes  of  famous  men,  the  sceneries  of  great 
events. 

Swing  round  to  east  or  south,  and  still  the  eye  falls 
lovingly  on  household  spots.  There,  beyond  Datchet  ferry, 
stood  the  lodge  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  around 
his  dwelling  spread  the  hunting-grounds  of  Alfred  and 
other  Saxon  kings.  Yon  islet  in  the  Thames  is  Magna 
Charta  Island  ;  while  the  open  field,  below  the  reach,  is 
Runnymede. 

The  heights  all  round  the  Norman  keep  are  capped 
with  fame  —  one  hallowed  by  a  saint,  another  crowned 
with  song.  Here  is  St.  Leonard's  hill  ;  and  yonder,  rising 
over    Runnymede,  is  Cooper's    hill.     Saints,  poets,   kings 


112  WINDSOR    CASTLE. 

and  queens,  divide  the  royalties  in  almost  equal  shares. 
St.  George  is  hardly  more  a  presence  in  the  place  than 
Chaucer  and  Shakespeare.  Sanctity  and  poetry  are  every- 
where about  us ;  in  the  royal  chapel,  by  the  river-side, 
among  the  forest  oaks,  and  even  in  the  tavern  yards. 
Chaucer  and  Shakespeare  have  a  part  in  Windsor  hardly 
less  pronounced  than  that  of  Edward  and  Victoria,  that  of 
St.  Leonard  and  St.  George. 

Windsor  was  river  born  and  river  named.  The  stream 
is  winding,  serpentine;  the  bank  by  which  it  rolls  was 
called  the  "  winding  shore."  The  fact,  common  to  all 
countries,  gives  a  name  which  is  common  to  all  languages. 
Snakes,  dragons,  serpentines,  are  names  of  winding  rivers 
in  every  latitude.  There  is  a  Snake  river  in  Utah,  another 
Snake  river  in  Oregon  ;  there  is  a  Drach  river  in  France, 
another  Drach  river  in  Switzerland.  The  straits  between 
Paria  and  Trinidad  is  the  Dragon's  Mouth  ;  the  outfall  of 
Lake  Chiriqui  is  also  the  Dragon's  Mouth.  In  the  Morea, 
in  Majorca,  in  Ionia,  there  are  Dragons.  There  is  a 
Serpent  islet  off  the  Danube,  and  a  Serpentaria  in  Sardinia. 
We  have  a  modern  Serpentine  in  Hyde  Park  ! 

Windsor,  born  of  that  winding  shore-line,  found  in  after 
days  her  natural  patron  in  St.  George. 

With  one  exception,  all  the  Castle  builders  were  men 
and  women  of  English  birth  and  English  taste  ;  Henry 
Beauclerc,  Henry  of  Winchester,  Edward  of  Windsor, 
Edward  of  York,  Henry  the  Seventh,  Queen  Elizabeth, 
George  the  Fourth,  and  Queen  Victoria  ;  and  these  Eng- 
lish builders  stamped  an  English  spirit  on  every  portion 
of  the  pile  —  excepting  on  the  Norman  keep. 


WINDSOR   CASTLE.  113 

Ages  before  the  Normans  came  to  Windsor,  a  Saxon 
hunting-lodge  had  been  erected  in  the  forest ;  not  on  the 
bleak  and  isolated  crest  of  hill,  but  by  the  river  margin, 
on  "  the  winding  shore."  This  Saxon  lodge  lay  hidden  in 
the  depths  of  ancient  woods,  away  from  any  public  road 
and  bridge.  The  King's  highway  ran  north,  the  Devil's 
Causeway  to  the  south.  The  nearest  ford  was  three 
miles  up  the  stream,  the  nearest  bridge  was  five  miles 
down  the  stream.  A  bridle-path,  such  as  may  still  be 
found  in  Spain  or  Sicily,  led  to  that  Saxon  lodge ;  but 
here  this  path  was  lost  among  the  ferns  and  underwoods. 
No  track  led  on  to  other  places.  Free  to  the  chase,  yet 
severed  from  the  world,  that  hunting-lodge  was  like  a  nest. 
Old  oaks  and  elms  grew  round  about  as  screens.  Deep 
glades,  with  here  and  there  a  bubbling  spring,  extended 
league  on  league,  as  far  as  Chertsey  bridge  and  Guildford 
down.  This  forest  knew  no  tenants  save  the  hart  and  boar, 
the  chough  and  crow.  An  air  of  privacy,  and  poetry,  and 
romance,  hung  about  this  ancient  forest  lodge. 

Seeds  of  much  legendary  lore  had  been  already  sown. 
A  builder  of  that  Saxon  lodge  had  been  imagined  in  a 
mythical  king — Arthur  of  the  Round  Table,  Arthur  of 
the  blameless  life  —  a  legend  which  endures  at  Windsor 
to  the  present  day.  There,  Godwin,  sitting  at  the  king's 
board,  had  met  his  death,  choked  with  the  lie  in  his 
wicked  throat.  There,  Edward  the  Confessor  had  lisped 
his  prayers,  and  cured  the  halt  and  blind.  There,  too,  the 
Saxon  princes,  Tosti  and  Harold,  were  supposed  to  have 
fought  in  the  king's  presence,  lugging  out  each  other's 
locks,   and  hurling  each  other  to   the    ground.     Of  later 


114  WINDSOR   CASTLE. 

growth  were  other  legends ;  ranging  from  the  romance 
of  the  Fitz-Warines,  through  the  Romaunt  of  the  Rose, 
down  to  the  rhyme  of  King  Edward  and  the  Shepherd, 
the  mystery  of  Heme  the  Hunter,  and  the  humours  of  the 
Merry  Wives. 

William  the  Conqueror  preserved  his  Saxon  hunting- 
lodge  by  the  river-side,  but  built  his  Norman  keep  on  the 
Castle  Hill — perhaps  on  the  ruins  of  a  Celtic  camp, 
certainly  round  the  edges  of  a  deep  and  copious  well. 

Henry  Beauclerc  removed  his  dwelling  from  the  river 
margin  to  the  crest  of  hill,  building  the  First  King's 
House.  This  pile  extended  from  the  Devil's  tower  to 
the  Watch  tower,  now  renamed  Victoria  tower.  A  part 
of  Beauclerc's  edifice  remains  in  massive  walls  of  the 
Devil's  tower,  and  a  cutting  through  the  chalk,  sustained 
by  Norman  masonry,  leading  from  a  shaft  under  the 
Queen's  apartment  to  the  southern   ditch. 

Henry  of  Winchester,  a  man  of  higher  genius  as  an 
architect,  built  the  Second  King's  House,  sweeping  into 
his  lines  the  lower  ground,  which  he  covered  by  walls  and 
towers,  including  Winchester  tower,  and  the  whole  curtain 
by  Curfew  tower  and  Salisbury  tower,  round  to  the  Lieu- 
tenant's lodgings,  now  called  Henry  the  Third's  tower. 
The  Second  King's  House,  long  since  ruined  and  removed, 
stood  on  the  site  of  the  present  cloisters.  Much  of  Henry 
of  Winchester's  work  remains ;  in  fact,  the  circuit  of  the 
lower  ward  is  mainly  his,  both  walls  and  towers,  from  the 
Devil's  tower,  touching  the  upper  ward,  round  to  Curfew 
tower  in  the  north-west  angle  of  the   lower  ward. 

Edward   of  Windsor  built    the    Third    King's    House, 


WINDSOR    CASTLE.  11$ 

fronting  towards  the  north,  and  gave  the  upper  ward  its 
final  shape.  On  introducing  a  new  patron  saint  to  Wind- 
sor, Edward  removed  his  own  lodging,  and  renounced  the 
lower  ward  entirely  to  the  service  of  St.  George.  First 
came  the  chapel  of  St.  George  ;  next  came  the  College  of 
St.  George ;  then  came  the  Canons  of  St.  George ;  lastly, 
came  the  Poor  Knights  of  St.  George.  The  central  ground 
was  given  up  to  the  chapel,  and  the  adjoining  quarter 
to  the  college.  From  Curfew  tower  to  the  Lieutenant's 
lodgings,  all  the  ground  was  consecrated  to  the  saint. 
The  first  tower,  reckoning  from  the  south,  became  Garter 
House,  the  second  Chancellor's  tower,  the  third  Garter 
tower,  while  the  land  within  the  walls  was  covered  by 
residences  for  the  military  knights.  An  area  equal  to  the 
upper  baily  was  surrendered  to  his  patron  saint. 

Edward  of  York  rebuilt  St.  George's  Chapel  on  a  larger 
scale  ;  for  Edward  of  York  had  heavy  sins  to  weigh  him 
down,  and  pressing  need  for  saintly  help. 

Henry  of  Richmond  roofed  that  chapel,  built  a  "  new 
tower "  in  the  King's  House,  and  made  a  fair  causeway 
from  Windsor  to  London  —  the  first  road  ever  made 
between  the  castle   and  the  capital. 

Queen  Elizabeth  built  the  gallery  which  bears  her  name, 
and  raised  the  great  terraces  above  the  Thames.  Before 
her  time  the  scarp  was  rough  and  steep  :  she  built  this 
solid  wall,  and  laid  this  level  road. 

George  the  Fourth  raised  the  Norman  keep  in  height, 
flanked  the  park  entrance  with  another  tower,  opened 
St.  George's  gate,  buttressed  the  North-east  tower,  and 
called  his  new  edifice  Brunswick  tower. 


Il6  WINDSOR   CASTLE. 

Like  Queen  Elizabeth,  Queen  Victoria  ha3  devoted  her 
attention  rather  to  the  slopes  and  gardens  than  the  struc- 
ture ;  but  the  few  additions  of  her  reign  have  been  effected 
with  a  proper  reverence  for  the  ancient  pile.  Her  Majesty 
has  cleared  off  slum  and  tenement  from  the  slopes,  and 
opened  the  southern  terrace,  just  as  Elizabeth  opened  the 
northern  terrace.  Work  has  been  done  in  cloister  and 
chapel.  As  Henry  of  Richmond  made  a  road  from 
Windsor  to  London,  Queen  Victoria  has  brought  two 
railways  to  her  castle  gates. 

Since  the  days  of  Edward  of  Windsor  the  Castle  hill 
has  kept  the  triple  character  —  upper  ward,  middle  ward, 
and  lower  ward  —  baily  of  the  King,  baily  of  the  keep, 
and  baily  of  St.  George  —  the  residence  of  our  sovereign, 
the  symbol  of  our  power,  the  altar  of  our  saint. 

Royal  Windsor  (London,  1879). 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  COLOGNE. 

ERNEST   BRETON. 

WE  are  now  in  the  middle  of  the  Tenth  Century  and 
in  the  city  of  Cologne ;  for  several  hours  a  man 
has  been  sitting  upon  the  banks  of  a  river,  flowing  majestically 
at  the  base  of  those  ramparts  which  sixty  years  ago  were 
erected  by  Philip  von  Heinsberg,  and  for  several  hours  his 
thoughtful  brow  has  not  been  lifted.  This  man  was  the 
first  master-workman  of  his  time  ;  three  centuries  later  he 
was  called  the  prince  of  architects.  The  Archbishop  of 
Cologne  had  said  to  him :  "  Master,  we  must  build  a 
cathedral  here  which  will  surpass  all  the  buildings  of  the 
world  in  grandeur  and  magnificence."  The  artist  replied  : 
"  I  will  do  it  ;  "  and  now  he  was  pondering  over  ways  of 
accomplishing  his  promise  about  which  he  was  frightened. 
At  this  moment  he  was  trying  to  think  out  a  marvellous 
plan  which  would  give  lustre  to  his  country  and  immortalize 
his  name ;  but  nothing  came  into  his  mind  worthy  of  the 
prodigy  he  was  trying  to  conceive  and  could  not  create. 

An  unknown  old  man  now  approached  and  sat  beside 
him,  regarding  him  with  a  mocking  air,  as  if  he  rejoiced  in 
his  perplexity  and  despair;  every  now  and  then  he  gave  a 
little,  dry  cough,  and  when  he  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  artist,  he  rapidly  traced  on  the  sand  with  a  ring  some 


Il8  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    COLOGNE. 

lines  which  he  immediately  effaced.  These  lines  formed 
exactly  that  plan  which  always  escaped  the  artist  and  whose 
fugitive  image  he  could  not  seize. 

"  You  would  like  to  have  this  plan  ?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  I  would  give  all  I  possess  for  it." 

"I  exact  nothing.  The  building  that  you  construct  will 
be  the  envy  and  the  eternal  despair  of  all  your  successors, 
the  admiration  of  centuries  to  come,  and  your  brilliant  and 
celebrated  name  will  be  known  to  the  most  remote  genera- 
tions. Your  life  will  be  long ;  you  will  pass  it  in  glory, 
wealth,  and  pleasure.  For  all  that  I  only  ask  for  your  soul 
when  your  life  draws  to  its  close." 

"  Fade  retro  Satanas  !  "  cried  the  agitated  artist.  "  Bet- 
ter the  nothingness  of  oblivion  than  eternal  damnation." 

"  Patience,"  said  Satan,  "  reflect :  we  shall  see,"  and  he 
vanished.  The  master-workman  returned  to  his  humble 
dwelling,  sadder  and  more  dreamful  than  when  he  left  it; 
he  could  not  close  his  eyes  all  night.  Glory,  wealth,  and 
pleasure  for  many  long  years,  and  all  that  for  one  word ! 
In  vain  he  tried  to  shake  himself  free  from  the  fatal  temp- 
tation ;  at  every  moment,  at  every  step  he  again  saw  the 
tempter  showing  him  his  transitory  plan  ;  he  succumbed. 

"To-morrow,  at  midnight,"  said  Satan,  "go  to  that  spot 
and  I  will  bring  you  the  plan  and  the  pact  that  you  must 
sign." 

The  artist  returned  to  the  city,  divided  between  remorse 
and  dreams  of  pride  and  ambition.  Remorse  conquered, 
and  before  the  appointed  hour  he  had  told  everything  to  his 
confessor.  "  It  will  be  a  master-stroke,"  said  the  latter, 
"  to  deceive  Satan  himself  and  snatch  the  famous  plan  from 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  COLOGNE.      119 

him  without  paying  the  price  of  your  soul,"  and  he  sketched 
out  the  line  of  conduct  that  he  should  follow. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  two  parties  stood  face  to  face. 
"  Here,"  said  Satan,  "  are  the  plan  and  pact ;  take  it  and  sign 
it."  Quick  as  lightning  the  master-workman  snatched  the 
plan  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  he  brandished  a 
piece  of  the  True  Cross,  which  the  wily  confessor  had 
given  to  him.  "  I  am  vanquished,"  cried  Satan,  "  but  you 
will  reap  little  benefit  through  your  treachery.  Your  name 
will  be  unknown  and  your  work  will  never  be  completed." 

Such  is  the  legend  of  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne.  I  have 
told  it  here  so  that  the  admiration  of  the  Middle  Ages  for 
this  plan,  which  could  not  be  considered  the  work  of  any 
human  genius,  may  be  measured,  and  for  six  centuries  the 
sinister  prediction  of  Satan  has  held  good. l 

At  the  north-east  end  of  the  elevation  occupied  by  the 
ancient  Colonia  Agrippina,  in  the  spot  where  the  choir  of  the 
Cathedral  raises  its  magnificent  pinnacles,  there  existed  in 
very  remote  ages  a  Roman  Castellum.  At  a  later  period 
this  was  replaced  by  a  palace  of  the  French  kings, 
which  Charlemagne  gave  to  his  chancellor  and  confessor 
Hildebold.   .   .   . 

The  Cathedral  of  Cologne  was  one  of  the  most  ancient 
seats  of  Christianity  in  Germany ;  it  contained  in  its  juris- 
diction the  capital  of  Charlemagne's  Empire,  the  city  where 
the  Emperors  were  crowned.  In  the  Twelfth  Century, 
Frederick  Barbarossa  enriched  it  with  one  of  those  sacred 

1  The  spires  of  the  Cathedral  were  finished  in  1880,  and  the  com- 
pletion of  the  edifice  was  celebrated  before  the  Emperor  William  I.  on 
October  15th  of  that  year.  —  E.  S. 

5— Vol.  3 


120  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    COLOGNE. 

treasures  which  in  a  time  of  faith  attracted  entire  populations 
and  gave  birth  to  the  gigantic  enterprises  which  seem  so 
incredible  in  our  positive  and  sceptical  age.  All  eyes  were 
turned  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  pilgrims  of  Germany,  as 
well  as  of  other  countries,  before  undertaking  this  perilous 
voyage  came  by  the  thousands  to  the  tomb  of  the  Magi,  to 
pray  to  God  that  the  same  star  which  guided  the  Three 
Wise  Men  to  Christ's  cradle  might  lead  them  to  his  tomb. 
The  celebrity  and  wealth  of  the  Cologne  Cathedral  was 
greatly  due  to  the  custom  of  the  Emperors  visiting  it  after 
their  coronation.  Thus,  from  the  moment  it  was  in  pos- 
session of  the  sacred  relics,  everything  combined  to  augment 
its  splendour;  princes,  emperors,  and  people  of  all  classes 
were  eager  to  add  to  its  treasures.  Therefore,  it  was  only 
a  natural  consequence  to  erect  on  the  site  of  the  old 
Cathedral  of  St.  Peter  a  building  more  vast  and  magnificent, 
and  which  would  accord  better  with  its  important  destiny. 
The  Archbishop  Angebert,  Count  of  Altena  and  Berg,  upon 
whom  Frederick  II.  conferred  the  dignity  of  vicar  of  the 
empire,  conceived  the  first  idea ;  but  at  about  the  age  of 
forty  he  was  assassinated  by  his  cousin,  the  Count  of 
Ysembourg,  in  1225,  and  the  enterprise  was  abandoned. 
Finally,  a  great  fire  devoured  the  Cathedral  in  1248  and 
its  immediate   reconstruction   was  indispensable.     .    .    . 

Everyone  knows  that  almost  all  churches  of  the 
pointed  arch  which  occupied  several  centuries  in  building 
show  the  special  mark  of  the  periods  in  which  their  various 
additions  were  constructed ;  this  is  not  the  case  with  the 
Cathedral  of  Cologne,  which  is  peculiar  in  the  fact  that 
its   foundations  and  its  additions  were  all  constructed  on 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  COLOGNE.      121 

one  and  the  same  plan,  which  preserves  the  original  design, 
and  therefore  it  presents  a  rare  and  admirable  unity. 

On  the  side  of  the  Rhine,  or  rather  on  the  Margreten, 
between  the  Trankgass  and  the  Domhof,  the  choir  of  the 
basilica  offers  the  most  imposing  effect.  It  is  only  from 
this  side  that  the  edifice  seems  to  have  an  end.  The  end 
of  the  roof,  edged  in  all  its  length  by  an  open-worked 
ridge,  is  surmounted  by  an  enormous  cross,  nine  metres 
high,  finished  with  a  fleur-de-lis  at  each  extremity.  This 
cross,  weighing  694  kil.,  was  only  placed  there  on  August  3, 
1825,  but  it  was  long  in  existence,  having  been,  it  is  said, 
presented  to  the  church  by  Marie  de'  Medici.  In  the 
centre  of  the  transept  there  rose  a  bell-tower,  65  metres 
high,  which  was  demolished  in  181 2.  The  plan  carries 
a  superb  fleche  of  stone,  open-worked  like  the  spires  of  the 
facade,  and  about  100  metres  high. 

Fifteen  flying-buttresses  on  each  side  proceed  from  the 
central  window  and  sustain  the  choir,  leaning  against  the 
buttresses  and  surmounted  by  elegant  pyramids.  Each  of 
these  pyramids  carries  twelve  niches  destined  to  hold 
angels  two  metres  high,  many  of  which  have  been 
restored  lately  by  Wilhelm  ImhofF.  The  upper  part  of 
the  flying-buttresses,  at  the  point  where  they  meet  the 
balustrade  of  the  roof,  is  crowned  by  another  and  more 
simple  pyramid.  Finally,  between  these  flying-buttresses 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  wall  of  the  choir,  magnificent 
mullioned  windows  are  disclosed.  The  entire  edifice  is 
covered  with  gargoyles,  each  more  bizarre  than  the 
other.   .   .  . 

Entering  the  cathedral  by  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the 


122  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    COLOGNE. 

northern  tower,  you  find  yourself  in  the  double-lower 
northern  nave.  The  first  bays  do  not  contain  altars,  but 
their  windows  reveal  magnificent  panes,  of  the  beginning 
of  the  Sixteenth  Century.  The  Archbishop  Herman  von 
Hesse,  the  Chapter,  the  City,  and  many  noble  families 
united  to  have  them  painted  by  the  most  distinguished 
artists  of  the  period,  which  was  the  apogee  of  Art  in 
Germany  ;  and  therefore  here  are  many  of  the  most 
admirable  chefs  d'ceuvre  of  glass-painting.   .  .   . 

The  Chapel  of  the  Kings  is  almost  entirely  occupied 
by  the  building  erected  in  1688  and  ornamented  by  Ionic 
pilasters  of  marble,  and  which,  shut  in  by  grilles  and  many 
locks,  contains  the  marvellous  reliquary  in  which  are 
preserved  the  relics  of  the  Three  Magi.  According  to 
Buttler,  these  relics  were  found  by  Saint  Helena,  mother 
of  Constantine,  during  her  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land  ; 
she  carried  them  carefully  to  Constantinople.  Soon  after- 
wards the  Archbishop  Eustorge,  to  whom  the  Emperor  had 
presented  them,  brought  them  to  Milan,  where  they  were 
deposited  in  the  church  subsequently  consecrated  to  the 
same  Eustorge,  who  was  canonized.  When  Frederick 
Barbarossa  invaded  the  town  in  1163,  Reinald  von  Dassile, 
Archbishop  of  Cologne,  received  them  as  a  reward  for 
the  services  which  he  had  rendered  to  the  Emperor  during 
the  siege.  At  the  same  time  Reinald  obtained  several 
relics  of  the  Maccabees,  of  the  Saints  Apollinaris,  Felix, 
Nabor,  Gregory  di  Spoletto,  etc.  He,  himself,  accom- 
panied this  treasure,  which  crossed  Switzerland  in  triumph, 
descended  the  Rhine  to  Remagen,  where  he  gave  it  to 
Philip    of  Heinsberg,  then   provost   of  the   Chapter. 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  COLOGNE.      123 

On  July  23,  1 1 64,  the  relics  weie  deposited  in  the 
ancient  cathedral,  from  which  they  were  transferred  to 
the  new  one ;  they  were  guarded  there  simply  by  an  iron 
grille  until  the  Archbishop  Maximilian  Heinrich  con- 
structed the  building  which  enc.oses  them  to-day,  upon 
whose  pediment  you  see  sculptured  in  marble,  by  Michael 
Van  der  Voorst  of  Antwerp,  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi, 
Saint  Felix,  Saint  Nabor,  and  two  female  figures  guarding 
the  arms  of  the  Metropolitan  Cha  >ter,  in  the  midst  of 
which  figure  those  of  the  Archbishoj  Maximilian  Heinrich. 
On  the  frieze  you  read  the  inscription  :  "  Tribus  ab  oriente 
regibus  devicto  in  agnitione  veri  numinis  capitulwn  metropol. 
erexit."  Above  the  grilled  window,  which  is  opened  dur- 
ing grand  ceremonies  to  permit  the  people  to  see  the 
reliquary,  is  written : 

"  Corpora  sanctorum  recubant  hie  terna  magorum ; 
Ax  his  sublatum  nihil  est  alibive  locatum.'"'' 

Finally,  above  the  reliquary  placed  to  the  right  and  left 
between  the  columns  one  reads  :  "  Et  apertis  thesauris  suis 
obtulerunt  munera" 

In  1794  the  relics  were  carried  to  the  treasury  of 
Arnsberg,  then  to  Prague,  where  the  three  crowns  of 
diamonds  were  sold,  and  finally  to  Frankfort-on-the-Main. 
When  they  were  brought  back  in  1804,  the  reliquary  was 
repaired  and  put  in  its  old  place.  This  reliquary,  a  chef 
d'eeuvre  of  Twelfth  Century  orfevrerie,  is  of  gilded  copper 
with  the  exception  of  the  front,  which  is  of  pure  gold ;  its 
form  is  that  of  a  tomb  ;  its  length  1  m.  85,  its  breadth 
I  m.  at  the  base,  its  height    1    m.  50 ;  on   the  side  turned 


124  THE   CATHEDRAL    OF    COLOGNE. 

to    the   west    you    see   represented    the  Adoration   of  the 
Magi  and  the  baptism  of  Jesus  Christ.     Above  the  sculp- 
ture is  a  kind  of  lid  which  may  be  raised,  permitting  you  to 
see  the  skulls  of  the  Three  Kings  ornamented  with  golden 
crowns    garnished    with  L  Bohemian    stones,  —  a    kind    of 
garnet ;  in  the  pedime\t  is  the  image  of  the   Divine  Judge 
sitting  between  two  ar,gels  who  hold  the  attributes  of  the 
Passion;    the    two    b;ists    above    represent     Gabriel     and 
Raphael ;    and,   finally,,  an    enormous    topaz   occupies    the 
summit  of  the  pedimWit.     The  right   side  of  the  reliquary 
is  ornamented  with  iv  ages  of  the  prophets,  Moses,  Jonah, 
David,  Daniel,  Amos,  and  Obadiah.     The  apostles  Paul, 
Philip,   Simon,  Thomas,  and   Judas   Thaddeus  are  placed 
in  six  niches  above.     In  the  left  side  you  see  the  prophets 
Ezekiel,  Jeremiah,  Nahum,  Solomon,  Joel,  and  Aaron,  and 
the  apostles  Bartholomew,  Matthew,  John  the  Lesser,  An- 
drew, Peter,  and  John  the  Great.     The  back  of  the  monu- 
ment presents  the  flagellation  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  Virgin 
Mary,  Saint  John,  the  Saviour  on  the   Cross,  Saint  Felix, 
Saint  Nabor,  the  Archbishop   Reinald  and  eight  busts  of 
angels.     The  monument  is  surmounted  by  an  open-work 
ridge  of  copper  lace.      This  magnificent  reliquary  is  cov- 
ered with  more   than    1,500   precious   stones  and   antique 
•  cameos  representing  subjects  which  are  not  exactly  Christian 
such    as    the    apotheosis    of   an    Emperor,    two    heads   of 
Medusa,    a    head    of    Hercules,    one    of    Alexander,    etc. 
Behind  the  reliquary  is  a  bas-relief  in   marble    I  m.  33  in 
height   and    1    m.  40    in   length,  representing    the   solemn 
removal     of   the    relics.       The    bas-reliefs     of    richly-gilr 
bronze,  placed  below  the  windows  which  occupy  the  back 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  COLOGNE.      125 

of  the  chapel,  represent  the  Adoration  of  the  Magi : 
these  were  the  gift  of  Jacques  dc  Croy,  Duke  of  Cambrai 
in  15 16.  This  window  is  ornamented  with  beautiful 
panes  of  the  Thirteenth  Century,  representing  various 
subjects  of  sacred  history. 

Jules  Gaillhabaud,  Monuments  anciens  et  modernes  (Paris,  1865)0 


THE   PALACE    OF   VERSAILLES. 
AUGUSTUS  J.   C.  HARE. 

THE  first  palace  of  Versailles  was  a  hunting-lodge 
built  by  Louis  XIII.  at  the  angle  of  the  present 
Rue  de  la  Pompe  and  Avenue  de  Saint-Cloud.  This  he 
afterwards  found  too  small,  and  built,  in  1627,  a  moated 
castle,  on  the  site  of  a  windmill  in  which  he  had  once 
taken  shelter  for  the  night.  The  buildings  of  this  chateau 
still  exist,  respected,  as  the  home  of  his  father,  in  all  the 
alterations  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  they  form  the  centre  of  the 
present  place.  In  1632  Louis  XIII.  became  seigneur  of 
Versailles  by  purchase  from  Francois  de  Gondi,  Archbishop 
of  Paris. 

The  immense  works  which  Louis  XIV.  undertook  here, 
and  which  were  carried  out  by  the  architect  Mansart,  were 
begun  in  1661,  and  in  1682  the  residence  of  the  Court 
was  definitely  fixed  at  Versailles,  connected  by  new  roads 
with  the  capital.  Colbert  made  a  last  effort  to  keep  the 
king  at  Paris,  and  to  divert  the  immense  sums  which  were 
being  swallowed  up  in  Versailles  to  the  completion  of  the 
Louvre.  The  very  dulness  of  the  site  of  Versailles,  leav- 
ing everything  to  be  created,  was  an  extra  attraction  in  the 
eyes  of  Louis  XIV.  The  great  difficulty  to  be  contended 
with  in  the  creation  of  Versailles  was  the  want  of  water, 


THE  PALACE  OF  VERSAILLES.       127 

and  this,  after  various  other  attempts  had  failed,  it  was 
hoped  to  overcome  by  a  canal  which  was  to  bring  the 
waters  of  the  Eure  to  the  royal  residence.  In  1681 
22,000  soldiers  and  6,000  horses  were  employed  in  this 
work,  with  such  results  of  sickness  that  the  troops  en- 
camped at  Maintenon,  where  the  chief  part  of  the  work 
was,  became  unfit  for  any  service.  On  October  12,  1678, 
Mme.  de  Sevigne  writes  to  Bussy-Rabutin  :  — 

"  The  king  wishes  to  go  to  Versailles ;  but  it  seems  that  God 
does  not,  to  judge  from  the  difficulty  of  getting  the  buildings  ready 
for  occupation  and  the  dreadful  mortality  of  the  workmen  who  are 
carried  away  every  night  in  waggons  filled  with  the  dead.  This 
terrible  occurrence  is  kept  secret  so  as  not  to  create  alarm  and  not 
to  deery  the  air  of  this  favor  i  sans  m'erite.  You  know  this  bon  mot 
of  Versailles." 

Nine  millions  were  expended  in  the  Aqueduct  of 
Maintenon,  of  which  the  ruins  are  still  to  be  seen,  then  it 
was  interrupted  by  the  war  of  1688,  and  the  works  were 
never  continued.  Instead,  all  the  water  of  the  pools  and 
the  snow  falling  on  the  plain  between  Rambouillet  and 
Versailles  was  brought  to  the  latter  by  a  series  of  subter- 
ranean watercourses. 

No  difficulties,  however  —  not  even  pestilence,  or  the 
ruin  of  the  country  by  the  enormous  cost  —  were  allowed  to 
interfere  with  "  les  plaisirs  du  roi."  The  palace  rose,  and 
its  gigantic  gardens  were  peopled  with  statues,  its  woods 
with  villages. 

Under  Louis  XV.  Versailles  was  chiefly  remarkable  as 
being  the   scene  of  the  extravagance  of  Mme.  de  Pompa- 


128  THE    PALACE    OF    VERSAILLES. 

dour  and  the  turpitude  of  Mme.  du  Barry.  Mme.  Campan 
has  described  for  us  the  life,  the  very  dull  life,  there  of 
"  Mesdames,"  daughters  of  the  king.  Yet,  till  the  great 
Revolution,  since  which  it  has  been  only  a  shadow  of  its 
former  self,  the  town  of  Versailles  drew  all  its  life  from  the 
chateau. 

Approaching  from  the  town  on  entering  the  grille  of  the 
palace  from  the  Place  d' 'Armes  we  find  ourselves  in  the  vast 
Cour  des  Statues  —  "  solennelle  et  morne."  In  the  centre  is 
an  equestrian  statue  of  Louis  XIV.  by  Petitot  and  Cartellier. 
Many  of  the  surrounding  statues  were  brought  from  the 
Pont  de  la  Concorde  at  Paris.  Two  projecting  wings  shut 
in  the  Cour  Royale,  and  separate  it  from  the  Cour  des  Princes 
on  the  left,  and  the  Cour  de  la  Chapelle  on  the  right.  Beyond 
the  Cour  Royale,  deeply  recessed  amongst  later  buildings  is 
the  court  called,  from  its  pavement,  the  Cour  de  Marbre^ 
surrounded  by  the  little  old  red  chateau  of  Louis  XIII. 

The  Cour  de  Marbre  was  sometimes  used  as  a  theatre 
under  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  opera  of  Alcestis  was  given 
there.  It  has  a  peculiar  interest,  for  no  stranger  can  look 
up  at  the  balcony  of  the  first  floor  without  recalling  Marie 
Antoinette  presenting  herself  there,  alone,  to  the  fury  of  the 
people,  October  6,  1789. 

The  palace  of  Versailles  has  never  been  inhabited  by 
royalty  since  the  chain  of  carriages  drove  into  this  court 
on  October  6,  to  convey  Louis  XVI.  and  his  family  to 
Paris. 

From  the  Grande  Cour  the  gardens  may  be  reached  by 
passages  either  from  the  Cour  des  Princes  on  the  left,  or 
from  the  Cour  de  la  Chapelle  on  the  right.     This  palace  has 


THE    PALACE    OF    VERSAILLES.  129 

had  three  chapels  in  turn.  The  first,  built  by  Louis  XIII., 
was  close  to  the  marble  staircase.  The  second,  built 
by  Louis  XIV.,  occupied  the  site  of  the  existing  Salon 
d'Hercule.  The  present  chapel,  built  1699-1 7 10,  is  the 
last  work  of  Mansart. 

Here  we  may  think  of  Bossuet,  thundering  before  Louis 
XIV.,  "  les  royaumes  meurent,  sire,  comme  les  rois"  and  of 
the  words  of  Massillon,  "  Si  Jesus-Christ  paraissait  dans  ce 
temple,  au  milieu  de  cette  assembl'ee,  la  plus  auguste  de  I'univers, 
pour  vous  juger,  pour  fair -e  le  terrible  discernement"  etc.  Here 
we  may  imagine  Louis  XIV.  daily  assisting  at  the  Mass,  and 
his  courtiers,  especially  the  ladies,  attending  also  to  flatter 
him,  but  gladly  escaping,  if  they  thought  he  would  not  be 
there.  .  .  . 

All  the  furniture  of  Versailles  was  sold  during  the  Revo- 
lution (in  1793),  and,  though  a  few  pieces  have  been  recov- 
ered, the  palace  is  for  the  most  part  unfurnished,  and  little 
more  than  a  vast  picture-gallery.  From  the  ante-chamber 
of  the  chapel  open  two  galleries  on  the  ground  floor  of 
the  north  wing.  One  is  the  Galerie  des  Sculptures ;  the 
other,  divided  by  different  rooms  looking  on  the  garden, 
is  the  Galerie  de  I'Histoire  de  France.  The  first  six  rooms 
of  the  latter  formed  the  apartments  of  the  Due  de  Maine, 
the  much  indulged  son  of  Louis  XIV.  and  Mme.  de 
Maintenon. 

At  the  end  of  the  gallery  (but  only  to  be  entered  now 
from  the  Rue  des  Reservoirs)  is  the  Salle  de  T  Opera.  In 
spite  of  the  passion  of  Louis  XIV.  for  dramatic  representa- 
tions, no  theatre  was  built  in  the  palace  during  his  reign. 
Some   of  the  plays  of  Moliere  and   Racine  were  acted  in 


130  THE    PALACE    OF    VERSAILLES. 

improvised  theatres  in  the  park ;  others,  in  the  halls  of  the 
palace,  without  scenery  or  costumes  ;  the  Athalie  of  Racine, 
before  the  King  and  Mme.  de  Maintenon,  by  the  young 
ladies  of  Saint-Cyr.  The  present  Opera  House  was  begun 
by  Jacques  Ange-Gabriel  under  Louis  XV.  for  Mme.  de 
Pompadour  and  finished   for  Mme.   du  Barry. 

The  Opera  House  was  inaugurated  on  the  marriage  of 
the  Dauphin  with  Marie  Antoinette,  and  nineteen  years 
after  was  the  scene  of  that  banquet,  the  incidents  of  which 
were  represented  in  a  manner  so  fatal  to  the  monarchy, 
given  by  the  body-guard  of  the  king  to  the  officers  of  a 
regiment  which   had  arrived  from  Flanders.   .   .   . 

The  garden  front  of  the  palace  has  not  yet  experienced 
the  soothing  power  of  age  :  it  looks  almost  new ;  two 
hundred  years  hence  it  will  be  magnificent.  The  long 
lines  of  the  building,  with  its  two  vast  wings,  are  only 
broken  by  the  top  of  the  chapel  rising  above  the  wing  on 
the  left. 

The  rich  masses  of  green  formed  by  the  clipped  yews  at 
the  sides  of  the  gardens  have  the  happiest  effect,  and  con- 
trast vividly  with  the  dark  background  of  chestnuts,  of 
which  the  lower  part  is  trimmed,  but  the  upper  falls  in 
masses  of  heavy  shade,  above  the  brilliant  gardens  with  their 
population  of  statues.  These  grounds  are  the  masterpiece 
of  Lenotre,  and  of  geometrical  gardening,  decorated  with 
vases,  fountains,  and  orange-trees.  Lovers  of  the  natural 
may  find  great  fault  with  these  artificial  gardens,  but  there  is 
much  that  is  grandiose  and  noble  in  them  ;  and,  as  Voltaire 
says  :  "  //  est  plus  facile  de  critiquer  Versailles  que  de  le 
refaire* 


THE    PALACE    OF    VERSAILLES.  131 

The  gardens  need  the  enlivenment  of  the  figures,  for 
which  they  were  intended  as  a  background,  in  the  gay 
Courts  of  Louis  XIV.  and  Louis  XV.  as  represented  in  the 
pictures  of  Watteau ;  but  the  Memoirs  of  the  time  enable 
us  to  repeople  them  with  a  thousand  forms  which  have  long 
been  dust,  centring  around  the  great  king,  u  Se  promenant 
dans  ses  jar  dins  de  Versailles,  dans  son  fauteuil  a  roues." 

The  sight  of  the  magnificent  terraces  in  front  of  the 
palace  will  recall  the  nocturnal  promenades  of  the  Court, 
so  much  misrepresented  by  the  enemies  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

Very  stately  is  the  view  down  the  main  avenue  —  great 
fountains  of  many  figures  in  the  foreground ;  then  the 
brilliant  Tapis  Vert,  between  masses  of  rich  wood  ;  then 
the  Bassin  d'Jpollon,  and  the  great  canal  extending  to 
distant   meadows  and  lines  of  natural  poplars. 

Days  near  Paris  (London,  1887). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   LINCOLN. 

THOMAS    FROGNALL   DIBDIN. 

WELCOME  to  Lincoln  !  Upwards  of  twenty  sum- 
mer suns  have  rolled  their  bright  and  genia! 
courses  since  my  first  visit  to  this  ancient  city,  —  or  rather, 
to  this  venerable  Cathedral  :  for  the  former  seems  to  be 
merged  in  the  latter.  There  is  no  proportion  between 
them.  A  population  of  only  twelve  thousand  inhabitants 
and  scarcely  more  than  an  ordinary  sprinkling  of  low 
commonplace  brick-houses,  are  but  inharmonious  acces- 
sories to  an  ecclesiastical  edifice,  built  upon  the  summit 
of  a  steep  and  lofty  hill  —  pointing  upwards  with  its  three 
beautiful  and  massive  towers  towards  heaven,  and  stretch- 
ing longways  with  its  lofty  nave,  choir,  ladye-chapel,  side 
chapels,  and  double  transepts.  For  site,  there  is  no  Cathe- 
dral to  my  knowledge  which  approaches  it.  .   .  . 

Upon  a  comparative  estimation  with  the  Cathedral  of 
York,  Lincoln  may  be  called  a  volume  of  more  extensive 
instruction  j  and  the  antiquary  clings  to  its  pages  with  a 
more  varied  delight.  The  surface  or  exterior  of  Lincoln 
Cathedral  presents  at  least  four  perfect  specimens  of  the 
succeeding  styles  of  the  first  four  orders  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture.    The  greater  part  of  the  front  may  be  as  old  as 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    LINCOLN.  133 

the  time  of  its  founder,  Bishop  Remigius, 1  at  the  end 
of  the  Eleventh  Century  :  but  even  here  may  be  traced 
invasions  and  intermixtures,  up  to  the  Fifteenth  Century. 
The  large  indented  windows  are  of  this  latter  period,  and 
exhibit  a  frightful  heresy.  The  western  towers  carry  you 
to  the  end  of  the  Twelfth  Century  :  then  succeeds  a  won- 
derful extent  of  Early  English,  or  the  pointed  arch.  The 
transepts  begin  with  the  Thirteenth,  and  come  down  to 
the  middle  of  the  Fourteenth  Century ;  and  the  interior, 
especially  the  choir  and  the  side  aisles,  abounds  with  the 
most  exquisitely  varied  specimens  of  that  period.  Fruits, 
flowers,  vegetables,  insects,  capriccios  of  every  description, 
encircle  the  arches  or  shafts,  and  sparkle  upon  the  capitals 
of  pillars.  Even  down  to  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  there 
are  two  private  chapels,  to  the  left  of  the  smaller  south 
porch,  on  entrance,  which  are  perfect  gems  of  art. 

Where  a  building  is  so  diversified,  as  well  as  vast,  it  is 
difficult  to  be  methodical ;  but  the  reader  ought  to  know, 
as  soon  as  possible,  that  there  are  here  not  only  two  sets 
of  transepts,  as  at  York,  but  that  the  larger  transept  is  the 
longest  in  England,  being  not  less  than  two  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  in  length.  The  window  of  the  south  transept  is 
circular,  and  so  large  as  to  be  twenty-two  feet  in  diameter ; 
bestudded  with  ancient  stained  glass,  now  become  some- 
what darkened  by  time,  and  standing  in  immediate  need 
of  cleaning  and  repairing.      I  remember,  on  my  first  visit 

1  Remigius  was  a  monk  of  Fescamp  in  Normandy,  and  brought 
over  here  by  William  the  Conqueror.  He  was  worthy  of  all  promo- 
tion. Brompton  tells  us  that  he  began  to  build  the  Cathedral  in  1088, 
and  finished  it  in  1092,  when  it  was  consecrated  j  but  the  founder 
died  two  days  before  its  consecration. 


134  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    LINCOLN. 

to  this  Cathedral,  threading  the  whoie  of  the  clerestory  on 
the  south  side,  and  coming  immediately  under  this  mag- 
nificent window,  which  astonished  me  from  its  size  and 
decorations.  Still,  for  simplicity  as  well  as  beauty  of  effect, 
the  delicately  ornamented  lancet  windows  of  the  north 
transept  of  York  Cathedral  have  clearly  a  decided  prefer- 
ence. One  wonders  how  these  windows,  both  at  York 
and  at  this  place,  escaped  destruction  from  Cromwell's 
soldiers.  .  .  .  The  Galilee,  to  the  left  of  the  larger  south 
transept,  is  a  most  genuine  and  delicious  specimen  of  Early 
English  architecture.  In  this  feature,  York,  upon  com- 
parison, is  both  petty  and  repulsive. 

Wherever  the  eye  strays  or  the  imagination  catches  a 
point  upon  which  it  may  revel  in  building  up  an  ingenious 
hypothesis,  the  exterior  of  Lincoln  Cathedral  (some  five 
hundred  feet  in  length)  is  a  never  failing  source  of 
gratification.   .   .   . 

Let  us  turn  to  the  grand  western  front ;  and  whatever 
be  the  adulterations  of  the  component  parts,  let  us  admire 
its  width  and  simplicity  ;  —  the  rude  carvings,  or  rather 
sculpture,  commemorative  of  the  life  of  the  founder,  St. 
Remigius :  and  although  horrified  by  the  indented  win- 
dows, of  the  perpendicular  style,  let  us  pause  again  and 
again  before  we  enter  at  the  side-aisle  door.  All  the 
three  doors  are  too  low ;  but  see  what  a  height  and  what 
a  space  this  front  occupies!  It  was  standing  on  this  spot, 
that  Corio,  my  dear  departed  friend  —  some  twenty  years 
ago  —  assured  me  he  remained  almost  from  sunset  to 
dawn  of  day,  as  the  whole  of  the  front  was  steeped  in  the 
soft  silvery  light  of  an  autumnal  full  moon.      He  had  seen 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    LINCOLN.  135 

nothing  before  so  grand.  He  had  felt  nothing  before  so 
stirring.  The  planets  and  stars,  as  they  rolled  in  their 
silent  and  glittering  orbits,  and  in  a  subdued  lustre,  over 
the  roof  of  the  nave,  gave  peculiar  zest  to  the  grandeur 
of  the  whole  scene  :  add  to  which,  the  awfully  deepening 
sounds  of  Great  Tom1  made  his  very  soul  to  vibrate! 
Here,  as  that  bell  struck  the  hour  of  two,  seemed  to  sit 
the  shrouded  figures  of  Remigius,  Bloet,  and  Geoffrey 
Plantagenet,2  who,  saluting  each  other  in  formal  prostra- 
tions, quickly  vanished  at  the  sound  "  into  thin  air."  The 
cock  crew;  the  sun  rose;  and  with  it  all  enchantment 
was  at  an  end.  Life  has  few  purer,  yet  more  delirious 
enjoyments,  than  this.   .   .   . 

The  reader  may  here,  perhaps,  expect  something  like  the 
institution  of  a  comparison  between  these  two  great  rival 
Cathedrals  of  Lincoln  and  York ;  although  he  will  have 
observed  many  points  in   common  between  them  to  have 

1  This  must  have  been  "  Great  Tom,"  the  First,  cast  in  1610  ; 
preceded  probably  by  one  or  more  Great  Toms,  to  the  time  of  Geoffrey 
Plantagenet.  "  Great  Tom,"  the  Second,  was  cast  by  Mr.  Mears  of 
Whitechapel  in  1834,  and  was  hung  in  the  central  tower  in  1835. 
Its  weight  is  5  tons,  8  cwt.  ;  being  one  ton  heavier  than  the  great  bell 
of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  ..."  Great  Tom,"  the  First,  was  hung  in 
the  north-west  tower. 

2  Robert  Bloet  was  a  worthy  successor  of  Remigius,  the  founder. 
Bloet  was  thirty  years  a  bishop  of  this  see —  largely  endowing  it  with 
prebendal  stalls,  and  with  rich  gifts  of  palls,  hoods,  and  silver  crosses. 
He  completed  the  western  front  —  and,  perhaps,  finished  the  Nor- 
man portion  of  the  nave,  now  replaced  by  the  Early  English.  .  .  . 
Geoffrey  Plantagenet  was  a  natural  son  of  Henry  II.,  and  was  elected 
in  1 173.  .  .  .  The  latter  years  of  his  life  seem  to  be  involved  in 
mystery,  for  he  fled  the  kingdom  five  years  before  his  death,  which 
happened  at  Grosmont,  near  Rouen,  in  izi2. 


136  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    LINCOLN. 

been  previously  settled.  The  preference  to  Lincoln  is 
given  chiefly  from  its  minute  and  varied  detail ;  while  its 
position  impresses  you  at  first  sight,  with  such  mingled  awe 
and  admiration,  that  you  cannot  divest  yourself  of  this 
impression,  on  a  more  dispassionately  critical  survey  of  its 
component  parts.  The  versed  antiquary  adheres  to  Lin- 
coln, and  would  build  his  nest  within  one  of  the  crocketted 
pinnacles  of  the  western  towers  —  that  he  might  hence 
command  a  view  of  the  great  central  tower ;  and,  abroad 
of  the  straight  Roman  road  running  to  Barton,  and  the 
glittering  waters  of  the  broad  and  distant  Humber.  But 
for  one  human  being  of  this  stamp,  you  would  have  one 
hundred  collecting  within  and  without  the  great  rival  at 
York.  Its  vastness,  its  space,  its  effulgence  of  light  and 
breadth  of  effect  :  its  imposing  simplicity,  by  the  compara- 
tive paucity  of  minute  ornament  —  its  lofty  lantern,  shining, 
as  it  were,  at  heaven's  gate,  on  the  summit  of  the  central 
tower  :  and,  above  all,  the  soul-awakening  devotion  kindled 
by  a  survey  of  its  vast  and  matchless  choir  leave  not  a 
shadow  of  doubt  behind,  respecting  the  decided  superiority 
of  this  latter  edifice. 

A    Bibliographical,    Antiquarian,    and    Picturesque    Tour   in    the 
Northern   Counties  of  England  and  in  Scotland  (London,   1838). 


THE  TEMPLE   OF  KARNAK, 

AMELIA    B.   EDWARDS. 

WE  now  left  the  village  behind,  and  rode  out  across 
a  wide  plain,  barren  and  hillocky  in  some  parts ; 
overgrown  in  others  with  coarse  halfeh  grass ;  and  dotted 
here  and  there  with  clumps  of  palms.  The  Nile  lay  low 
and  out  of  sight,  so  that  the  valley  seemed  to  stretch  away 
uninterruptedly  to  the  mountains  on  both  sides.  Now  leav- 
ing to  the  left  a  Sheykh's  tomb,  topped  by  a  little  cupola 
and  shaded  by  a  group  of  tamarisks;  now  following  the  bed 
of  a  dry  watercourse  ;  now  skirting  shapeless  mounds  that 
indicated  the  site  of  ruins  unexplored,  the  road,  uneven  but 
direct,  led  straight  to  Karnak.  At  every  rise  in  the  ground 
we  saw  the  huge  propylons  towering  higher  above  the 
palms.  Once,  but  for  only  a  few  moments,  there  came 
into  sight  a  confused  and  wide-spread  mass  of  ruins,  as 
extensive,  apparently,  as  the  ruins  of  a  large  town.  Then 
our  way  dipped  into  a  sandy  groove  bordered  by  mud-walls 
and  plantations  of  dwarf-palms.  All  at  once  this  groove 
widened,  became  a  stately  avenue  guarded  by  a  double  file 
of  shattered  sphinxes,  and  led  towards  a  lofty  pylon  stand- 
ing up  alone  against  the  sky. 

Close  beside  this  grand  gateway,  as  if  growing  there  on 
purpose,  rose  a   thicket   of  sycamores  and   palms ;    while 


I38  THE    TEMPLE    OF    KARNAK. 

beyond  it  were  seen  the  twin  pylons  of  a  Temple.  The 
sphinxes   were  colossal,  and  measured   about   ten   feet   in 

length.     One  or  two  were  ram-headed.     Of  the  rest 

some  forty  or  fifty  in  number  —  all  were  headless,  some 
split  asunder,  some  overturned,  others  so  mutilated  that 
they  looked  like  torrent-worn  boulders.  This  avenue  once 
reached  from  Luxor  to  Karnak.  Taking  into  account  the 
distance  (which  is  just  two  miles  from  Temple  to  Temple) 
and  the  short  intervals  at  which  the  sphinxes  are  placed, 
there  cannot  originally  have  been  fewer  than  five  hundred 
of  them  ;  that  is  to  say,  two  hundred  and  fifty  on  each  side 
of  the  road. 

Dismounting  for  a  few  minutes,  we  went  into  the 
Temple  ;  glanced  round  the  open  courtyard  with  its  colon- 
nade of  pillars  ;  peeped  hurriedly  into  some  ruinous  side- 
chambers  ;  and  then  rode  on.  Our  books  told  us  that  we 
had  seen  the  small  Temple  of  Rameses  the  Third.  It 
would  have  been  called  large  anywhere  but  at  Karnak. 

I  seem  to  remember  the  rest  as  if  it  had  all  happened  in 
a  dream.  Leaving  the  small  Temple,  we  turned  towards 
the  river,  skirted  the  mud-walls  of  the  native  village,  and 
approached  the  Great  Temple  by  way  of  its  main  entrance. 
Here  we  entered  upon  what  had  once  been  another  great 
avenue  of  sphinxes,  ram-headed,  couchant  on  plinths  deep 
cut  with  hieroglyphic  legends,  and  leading  up  from  some 
grand  landing-place  beside  the   Nile. 

And  now  the  towers  that  we  had  first  seen  as  we  sailed 
by  in  the  morning  rose  straight  before  us,  magnificent  in 
ruin,  glittering  to  the  sun,  and  relieved  in  creamy  light 
against  blue  depths  of  sky.     One  was  nearly  perfect ;  the 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  KARNAK.         139 

other,  shattered  as  if  by  the  shock  of  an  earthquake,  was 
still  so  lofty  that  an  Arab  clambering  from  block  to  block 
midway  of  its  vast  height  looked  no  bigger  than  a  squirrel. 

On  the  threshold  of  this  tremendous  portal  we  again  dis- 
mounted. Shapeless  crude-brick  mounds,  marking  the 
limits  of  the  ancient  wall  of  circuit,  reached  far  away  on 
either  side.  An  immense  perspective  of  pillars  and  pylons 
leading  up  to  a  very  great  obelisk  opened  out  before  us. 
We  went  in,  the  great  walls  towering  up  like  cliffs  above 
our  heads,  and  entered  the  Pirst  Court.  Here,  in  the 
midst  of  a  large  quadrangle  open  to  the  sky  stands  a 
solitary  column,  the  last  of  a  central  avenue  of  twelve, 
some  of  which,  disjointed  by  the  shock,  lie  just  as  they  fell, 
like  skeletons  of  vertebrate  monsters  left  stranded  by  the 
Flood. 

Crossing  this  Court  in  the  glowing  sunlight,  we  came  to 
a  mighty  doorway  between  two  more  propylons  —  the 
doorway  splendid  with  coloured  bas-reliefs  ;  the  propylons 
mere  cataracts  of  fallen  blocks  piled  up  to  right  and  left  in 
grand  confusion.  The  cornice  of  the  doorway  is  gone. 
Only  a  jutting  fragment  of  the  lintel  stone  remains.  That 
stone,  when  perfect,  measured  forty  feet  and  ten  inches 
across.  The  doorway  must  have  been  full  a  hundred  feet 
in  height. 

We  went  on.  Leaving  to  the  right  a  mutilated  colossus 
engraven  on  arm  and  breast  with  the  cartouche  of  Rameses 
II.,  we  crossed  the  shade  upon  the  threshold,  and  passed 
into  the  famous   Hypostyle   Hall  of  Seti  the  First. 

It  is  a  place  that  has  been  much  written  about  and  often 
painted  ;  but  of  which  no  writing   and  no  art  can  convey 


I40  THE    TEMPLE    OF    KARNAK. 

more  than  a  dwarfed  and  pallid  impression.  To  describe 
it,  in  the  sense  of  building  up  a  recognisable  image  by 
means  of  words,  is  impossible.  The  scale  is  too  vast ;  the 
effect  too  tremendous  ;  the  sense  of  one's  own  dumbness, 
and  littleness,  and  incapacity,  too  complete  and  crushing. 
It  is  a  place  that  strikes  you  into  silence ;  that  empties  you, 
as  it  were,  not  only  of  words  but  of  ideas.  Nor  is  this  a 
first  effect  only.  Later  in  the  year,  when  we  came  back 
down  the  river  and  moored  close  by,  and  spent  long  days 
among  the  ruins,  I  found  I  never  had  a  word  to  say  in  the 
Great  Hall.  Others  might  measure  the  girth  of  those 
tremendous  columns ;  others  might  climb  hither  and 
thither,  and  find  out  points  of  view,  and  test  the  accuracy 
of  Wilkinson  and  Mariette ;  but  I  could  only  look,  and  be 
silent. 

Yet  to  look  is  something,  if  one  can  but  succeed  in 
remembering;  and  the  Great  Hall  of  Karnak  is  photo- 
graphed in  some  dark  corner  of  my  brain  for  as  long  as  I 
have  memory.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  see  it  as  if  I  were 
there  —  not  all  at  once,  as  in  a  picture ;  but  bit  by  bit,  as 
the  eye  takes  note  of  large  objects  and  travels  over  an 
extended  field  of  vision.  I  stand  once  more  among  those 
mighty  columns,  which  radiate  into  avenues  from  what- 
ever point  one  takes  them.  I  see  them  swathed  in  coiled 
shadows  and  broad  bands  of  light.  I  see  them  sculptured 
and  painted  with  shapes  of  Gods  and  Kings,  with  blazon- 
ings  of  royal  names,  with  sacrificial  altars,  and  forms  of 
sacred  beasts,  and  emblems  of  wisdom  and  truth.  The 
shafts  of  these  columns  are  enormous.  I  stand  at  the  foot 
of  one  —  or  of  what  seems  to  be  the  foot ;  for  the  originaj 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  KARNAK.         141 

pavement  lies  buried  seven  feet  below.  Six  men  standing 
with  extended  arms,  finger-tip  to  finger-tip,  could  barely 
span  it  round.  It  casts  a  shadow  twelve  feet  in  breadth  — 
such  a  shadow  as  might  be  cast  by  a  tower.  The  capital 
that  juts  out  so  high  above  my  head  looks  as  if  it  might 
have  been  placed  there  to  support  the  heavens.  It  is  carved 
in  the  semblance  of  a  full-blown  lotus,  and  glows  with  un- 
dying colours  —  colours  that  are  still  fresh,  though  laid  on 
by  hands  that  have  been  dust  these  three  thousand  years  and 
more.  It  would  take  not  six  men,  but  a  dozen  to  measure 
round  the  curved  lip  of  that  stupendous  lily. 

Such  are  the  twelve  central  columns.  The  rest  (one 
hundred  and  twenty-two  in  number)  are  gigantic  too ;  but 
smaller.  Of  the  roof  they  once  supported,  only  the  beams 
remain.  Those  beams  are  stone  —  huge  monoliths  carved 
and  painted,  bridging  the  space  from  pillar  to  pillar,  and 
patterning  the  trodden  soil  with  bands  of  shadow. 

Looking  up  and  down  the  central  avenue,  we  see  at  the 
one  end  a  flame-like  obelisk ;  at  the  other,  a  solitary  palm 
against  a  background  of  glowing  mountain.  To  right,  to 
left,  showing  transversely  through  long  files  of  columns,  we 
catch  glimpses  of  colossal  bas-reliefs  lining  the  roofless 
walls  in  every  direction.  The  King,  as  usual,  figures  in 
every  group,  and  performs  the  customary  acts  of  worship. 
The  Gods  receive  and  approve  him.  Half  in  light,  half  in 
shadow,  these  slender,  fantastic  forms  stand  out  sharp,  and 
clear,  and  colourless  ;  each  figure  some  eighteen  or  twenty 
feet  in  height.  They  could  scarcely  have  looked  more 
weird  when  the  great  roof  was  in  its  place  and  perpetual 
twilight  reigned.     But  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  the  roof  on, 


142  THE    TEMPLE    OF    KARNAK. 

and  the  sky  shut  out.  It  all  looks  right  as  it  is ;  and  one 
feels,  somehow,  that  such  columns  should  have  nothing 
between  them  and  the  infinite  blue  depths  of  heaven.  .  .  . 
It  may  be  that  the  traveller  who  finds  himself  for  the  first 
time  in  the  midst  of  a  grove  of  Welllngtonia  gigantea  feels 
something  of  the  same  overwhelming  sense  of  awe  and 
wonder ;  but  the  great  trees,  though  they  have  taken  three 
thousand  years  to  grow,  lack  the  pathos  and  the  mystery 
that  comes  of  human  labour.  They  do  not  strike  their 
roots  through  six  thousand  years  of  history.  They  have  not 
been  watered  with  the  blood  and  tears  of  millions.1  Their 
leaves  know  no  sounds  less  musical  than  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  or  the  moaning  of  the  night-wind  as  it  sweeps  over 
the  highlands  of  Calaveros.  But  every  breath  that  wanders 
down  the  painted  aisles  of  Karnak  seems  to  echo  back  the 
sighs  of  those  who  perished  in  the  quarry,  at  the  oar,  and 
under  the  chariot-wheels  of  the  conqueror. 

A  Thousand  Miles  up  the  Nile  (London,  2d  ed.,  1889). 

1  It  has  been  estimated  that  every  stone  of  these  huge  Pharaonic 
temples  cost,  at  least,  one  human  life. 


SANTA   MARIA  DEL  FIORE. 

CHARLES   YRIARTE. 

THE  document  by  which  the  council  of  the  munici- 
pality of  Florence  decided  the  erection  of  her 
Cathedral,  in  1294,  is  an  historic  monument  in  which  is 
reflected  the  generous  spirit  of  the  Florentines. 

"  Considering  that  all  the  acts  and  works  of  a  people  who  boast 
of  an  illustrious  origin  should  bear  the  character  of  grandeur^and 
wisdom,  we  order  Arnolfo,  director  of  the  works  of  our  commune,  to 
make  the  model,  or  a  design  of  the  building,  which  shall  replace  the 
church  of  Santa  Reparata.  It  shall  display  such  magnificence  that 
no  industry  nor  human  power  shall  surpass  it.  ...  A  government 
should  undertake  nothing  unless  in  response  to  the  desire  of  a  heart 
more  than  generous,  which  expresses  in  its  beatings  the  heart  of  all 
its  citizens  united  in  one  common  wish  :  it  is  from  this  point  of 
view  that  the  architect  charged  with  the  building  of  our  cathedral 
must   be   regarded." 

It  must  be  admitted  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  express 
a  more  noble  idea  and  a  more  elevated  sentiment  than 
this. 

The  name  of  the  Cathedral  is  evidently  an  allusion  to 
the  lily,  the  heraldic  emblem  of  Florence.  The  ceremony 
of  laying  the  first  stone  took  place  on  September  8th,  1298  ; 


144  SANTA    MARIA    DEL    FIORE. 

Pope  Boniface  VIII.  was  represented  by  his  legate,  Cardinal 
Pietro  Valeriano.  Arnolfo's  plan  was  a  Latin  cross  with 
three  naves,  each  nave  divided  into  four  arcades  with  sharp 
pointed  arches.  In  the  centre  of  the  cross,  under  the 
vault  of  the  dome,  was  reserved  a  space  enclosed  by  a 
ringhiera,  having  open  sides,  with  an  altar  in  its  axis,  and 
in  each  of  its  little  arms  five  rectangular  chapels  were 
placed.  The  walls  were  naked,  and  the  architecture  alone 
served  for  decoration ;  the  effect,  however,  was  altogether 
imposing. 

Arnolfo  did  not  finish  his  work;  he  died  about  1230, 
leaving  the  church  completed  only  as  far  as  the  capitals 
destined  to  support  the  arches.  In  1332  Giotto  was 
nominated  to  succeed  him,  and  for  about  two  hundred 
years  the  work  was  continued  without  interruption,  under 
the  direction  of  the  most  worthy  men. 

It  is  to  Giotto  that  we  owe  that  extraordinary  annex 
to  the  Duomo,  so  celebrated  throughout  the  world  under 
the  name  of  Campanile;  its  foundation  was  laid  in  1334, 
after  the  little  church  of  San  Zanobio  was  razed.  It  is 
85  metres  high  ;  Giotto,  however,  had  calculated  94  metres 
in  his  plan  and  intended  to  finish  the  square  column  with 
a  pyramid,  like  the  Campanile  of  Saint  Mark's  in  Venice ; 
but  he  was  unable  to  complete  his  work,  and  his  successor, 
Taddeo  Gaddi,  suppressed  this  appendix.  The  Campanile 
has  six  divisions ;  the  first  and  the  second,  which  are 
easily  examined,  are  ornamented  with  sculpture  executed 
by   Andrea   Pisano,  after  Giotto's  designs.   .   .  . 

Even  at  the  risk  of  banality,  the  saying  attributed  to 
Charles  V.  when  he  entered  Florence  after  the  siege  should 


SANTA    MARIA    DEL    FIORE.  145 

be  mentioned  here ;  he  paused  before  the  Campanile,  con- 
templated it  for  a  long  while,  and  then  exclaimed :  "  They 
should  make  a  case  for  the  Campanile  and  exhibit  it  as 
a  jewel." 

Mounting  to  the  top  of  the  tower,  we  can  count,  one 
by  one,  the  domes,  the  towers,  and  the  monuments,  and 
gaze  upon  the  beautiful  landscape  which  surrounds  the 
city  of  flowers.  There  are  in  this  tower  seven  bells,  the 
largest  of  which,  cast  in  1705  to  replace  the  one  that  had 
been  broken,  does  not  weigh  less  than  15,860  pounds. 

Among  the  architects  who  succeeded  Giotto,  we  must 
count  the  master  of  masters,  who  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
incontestably  illustrious  of  the  Fifteenth  Century  archi- 
tects—  Filippo  Brunelleschi.  It  was  in  1421  that  he 
began  the  superb  dome  which  crowns  the  Cathedral.  This 
was  his  masterpiece,  surpassing  in  audacity  and  harmony 
all  the  monuments  of  modern  art.  Everyone  knows  that 
this  dome  is  double  :  the  interior  casing  is  spherical,  and 
between  it  and  the  exterior  dome  are  placed  the  stairways, 
chains,  counter-weights,  and  all  the  accessories  of  con- 
struction which  render  it  enduring.  It  was  only  fifteen 
years  after  the  death  of  the  great  Philippo  that  this  dome 
was  finished  (1461).  It  inspired  Michael  Angelo  for 
Saint  Peter's  in  Rome,  and  Leon  Battista  Alberti  took  it 
for  his  model  in  building  the  famous  temple  of  Rimini 
which  he  left  unfinished.  Andrea  del  Verocchio,  the  beau- 
tiful sculptor  of  the  Enfant  au  dauphin  and  the  Tomb  of 
the  Medicis  in  the  old  sacristy,  designed  and  executed  the 
ball,  and  Giovanni  di  Bartolo  completed  the  node  on 
which  the  Cross  stands. 


I46  SANTA    MARIA   DEL    FIORE. 

The  church  contains  several  tombs,  among  others 
those  of  Giotto,  commissioned  to  Benedetto  da  Maiano 
by  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and  that  of  the  famous 
organist,  Antonio  Squarcialupi,  a  favourite  of  Lorenzo 
to  whom  "  The  Magnificent  "  wrote  an  epitaph.  It  is 
thought  that  the  Poggio  rests  in  Santa  Maria  del  Fiore. 
The  sarcophagus  of  Aldobrandino  Ottobuoni  is  near  the 
door  of  the  Servi. 

I  have  said  that  the  walls  are  naked,  that  is  to  say  that 
architecture  does  not  play  a  great  part  on  them,  but  the 
building  contains  a  number  of  works  of  the  highest  order 
by  Donatello,  Michelozzo,  Ghiberti,  della  Robbia,  San- 
sovino,  Bandinelli,  and  Andrea  del  Castagno.  It  was  by 
the  door  of  the  Servi  that  Dominico  di  Michelino  on 
January  30, 1465,  painted  Dante,  a  tribute  paid  tardily  to  the 
memory  of  the  prince  of  poets  by  the  society  of  Florentines, 
who  were  none  other  than  the  workmen  employed  in  the 
construction  of  the  Cathedral.  Under  these  arches  where 
Boccaccio  made  his  passionate  words  resound  to  the  memory 
of  the  author  of  the  Divina  Comedia,  Michelino  painted 
Dante  clothed  in  a  red  toga  and  crowned  with  laurel,  hold- 
ing in  one  hand  a  poem  and  with  the  other  pointing 
to  the  symbolical  circles.  The  inscription  states  that 
the  execution  of  this  fresco  is  due  to  one  of  Dante's 
commentators,  Maestro  Antonio,  of  the  order  of  the 
Franciscans. 

Florence :  V histoire  —  Les  Medicis —  Les  humanistes  —  Les  lettres  — ■ 
Les  arts  (Paris,  1881). 


GIOTTO'S    CAMPANILE. 
MRS.   OLIPHANT. 

OF  all  the  beautiful  things  with  which  Giotto  adorned 
his  city,  not  one  speaks  so  powerfully  to  the 
foreign  visitor  —  the  forestiere  whom  he  and  his  fellows 
never  took  into  account,  though  we  occupy  so  large  a 
space  among  the  admirers  of  his  genius  nowadays  —  as 
the  lovely  Campanile  which  stands  by  the  great  Cathedral 
like  the  white  royal  lily  beside  the  Mary  of  the  Annuncia- 
tion, slender  and  strong  and  everlasting  in  its  delicate 
grace.  It  is  not  often  that  a  man  takes  up  a  new  trade 
when  he  is  approaching  sixty,  or  even  goes  into  a  new 
path  out  of  his  familiar  routine.  But  Giotto  seems  to  have 
turned  without  a  moment's  hesitation  from  his  paints  and 
panels  to  the  less  easily-wrought  materials  of  the  builder 
and  sculptor,  without  either  faltering  from  the  great  enter- 
prise or  doubting  his  own  power  to  do  it.  His  frescoes 
and  altar-pieces  and  crucifixes,  the  work  he  had  been  so 
long  accustomed  to,  and  which  he  could  execute  pleasantly 
in  his  own  workshop,  or  on  the  cool  new  walls  of  church 
or  convent,  with  his  trained  school  of  younger  artists  round 
to  aid  him,  were  as  different  as  possible  from  the  elaborate 
calculations  and  measurements  by  which  alone  the  lofty 
tower,  straight  and  lightsome  as  a  lily,  could  have  sprung 
so  high  and  stood  so  lightly  against  that  Italian  sky.  No 
longer    mere  pencil   or  brush,   but   compasses   and  quaint 


148  GIOTTO'S    CAMPANILE. 

mathematical  tools,  figures  not  of  art  by  arithmetic,  elabo- 
rate weighing  of  proportions  and  calculations  of  quantity 
and  balance,  must  have  changed  the  character  of  those 
preliminary  studies  in  which  every  artist  must  engage 
before  he  begins  a  great  work.  Like  the  poet  or  the 
romancist  when  he  turns  from  the  flowery  ways  of  fiction 
and  invention,  where  he  is  unincumbered  by  any  restric- 
tions save  those  of  artistic  keeping  and  personal  will,  to 
the  grave  and  beaten  path  of  history  —  the  painter  must 
have  felt  when  he  too  turned  from  the  freedom  and  poetry 
of  art  to  this  first  scientific  undertaking.  The  Cathedral 
was  so  far  finished  by  this  time,  its  front  not  scarred  and 
bare  as  at  present,  but  adorned  with  statues  according  to 
old  Arnolfo's  plan,  who  was  dead  more  than  thirty  years 
before  j  but  there  was  no  belfry,  no  companion  peal  of 
peace  and  sweetness  to  balance  the  hoarse  old  vacca  with 
its  voice  of  iron.  Giotto  seems  to  have  thrown  himself 
into  the  work  not  only  without  reluctance  but  with  enthu- 
siasm. The  foundation-stone  of  the  building  was  laid  in 
July  of  that  year,  with  all  the  greatness  of  Florence  look- 
ing on ;  and  the  painter  entered  upon  his  work  at  once, 
working  out  the  most  poetic  effort  of  his  life  in  marble 
and  stone,  among  masons'  chippings  and  the  dust  and 
blaze  of  the  public  street.  At  the  same  time  he  designed, 
though  it  does  not  seem  sure  whether  he  lived  long  enough 
to  execute,  a  new  facade  for  the  Cathedral,  replacing 
Arnolfo's  old  statues  by  something  better,  and  raising  over 
the  doorway  the  delicate  tabernacle  work  which  we  see 
in  Pocetti's  picture  of  St.  Antonino's  consecration  as  bishop 
of  St.  Mark's.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  believe  that  while 
the  foundations  of  the  Campanile  were  being  laid  and  the 


GIOTTO'S    CAMPANILE.  149 

ruder  mason-work  progressing,  the  painter  began  immedi- 
ately upon  the  more  congenial  labour,  and  made  the  face 
of  the  Duomo  fair  with  carvings,  with  soft  shades  of  those 
toned  marbles  which  fit  so  tenderly  into  each  other,  and 
elaborate  canopies  as  delicate  as  foam ;  but  of  this  there 
seems  no  certainty.  Of  the  Campanile  itself  it  is  difficult 
to  speak  in  ordinary  words.  The  enrichments  of  the 
surface,  which  is  covered  by  beautiful  groups  set  in  a 
graceful  framework  of  marble,  with  scarcely  a  flat  or 
unadorned  spot  from  top  to  bottom,  has  been  ever  since 
the  admiration  of  artists  and  of  the  world.  But  we  con- 
fess, for  our  own  part,  that  it  is  the  structure  itself  that 
affords  us  that  soft  ecstasy  of  contemplation,  sense  of  a 
perfection  before  which  the  mind  stops  short,  silenced  and 
filled  with  the  completeness  of  beauty  unbroken,  which 
Art  so  seldom  gives,  though  Nature  often  attains  it  by 
the  simplest  means,  through  the  exquisite  perfection  of  a 
flower  or  a  stretch  of  summer  sky.  Just  as  we  have 
looked  at  a  sunset,  we  look  at  Giotto's  tower,  poised  far 
above  in  the  blue  air,  in  all  the  wonderful  dawns  and 
moonlights  of  Italy,  swift  darkness  shadowing  its  white 
glory  at  the  tinkle  of  the  Ave  Mary,  and  a  golden  glow 
of  sunbeams  accompanying  the  midday  Angelus.  Between 
the  solemn  antiquity  of  the  old  Baptistery  and  the  historical 
gloom  of  the  great  Cathedral,  it  stands  like  the  lily  —  if 
not,  rather,  like  the  great  Angel  himself  hailing  her  who 
was  blessed  among  women,  and  keeping  up  that  lovely 
salutation,  musical  and  sweet  as  its  own  beauty,  for  century 
after  century,  day  after  day. 

The  Makers  of  Florence  (London,  1876). 


GIOTTO'S    CAMPANILE* 

JOHN    RUSKIN. 

IN  its  first  appeal  to  the  stranger's  eye  there  is  some- 
thing unpleasing  ;  a  mingling,  as  it  seems  to  him,  of 
over  severity  with  over  minuteness.  But  let  him  give  it 
time,  as  he  should  to  all  other  consummate  art.  I  re- 
member well  how,  when  a  boy,  I  used  to  despise  that 
Campanile,  and  think  it  meanly  smooth  and  finished. 
But  I  have  since  lived  beside  it  many  a  day,  and  looked 
out  upon  it  from  my  windows  by  sunlight  and  moonlight, 
and  I  shall  not  soon  forget  how  profound  and  gloomy 
appeared  to  me  the  savageness  of  the  Northern  Gothic, 
when  I  afterwards  stood,  for  the  first  time,  beneath  the 
front  of  Salisbury.  The  contrast  is  indeed  strange,  if  it 
could  be  quickly  felt,  between  the  rising  of  those  grey 
walls  out  of  their  quiet  swarded  space,  like  dark  and  barren 
rocks  out  of  a  green  lake,  with  their  rude,  mouldering, 
rough-grained  shafts,  and  triple  lights,  without  tracery  or 
other  ornament  than  the  martins'  nests  in  the  height  of 
them,  and  that  bright,  smooth,  sunny  surface  of  glowing 
jasper,  those  spiral  shafts  and  fairy  traceries,  so  white,  so 
faint,  so  crystalline,  that  their  slight  shapes  are  hardly 
traced  in  darkness  on  the  pallor  of  the  Eastern  sky,  that 
serene  height  of  mountain  alabaster,  coloured  like  a  morn- 


GIOTTO'S    CAMPANILE.  151 

ing  cloud,  and  chased  like  a  sea  shell.  And  if  this  be, 
as  I  believe  it,  the  model  and  mirror  of  perfect  architecture, 
is  there  not  something  to  be  learned  by  looking  back  to 
the  early  life  of  him  who  raised  it  ?  I  said  that  the  Power 
of  human  mind  had  its  growth  in  the  Wilderness ;  much 
more  must  the  love  and  the  conception  of  that  beauty, 
whose  every  line  and  hue  we  have  seen  to  be,  at  the  best, 
a  faded  image  of  God's  daily  work,  and  an  arrested  ray 
of  some  star  of  creation,  be  given  chiefly  in  the  places 
which  He  has  gladdened  by  planting  there  the  fir-tree  and 
the  pine.  Not  within  the  walls  of  Florence,  but  among 
the  far  away  fields  of  her  lilies,  was  the  child  trained  who 
was  to  raise  that  head-stone  of  Beauty  above  the  towers 
of  watch  and  war.  Remember  all  that  he  became;  count 
the  sacred  thoughts  with  which  he  filled  Italy  ;  ask  those 
who  followed  him  what  they  learned  at  his  feet ;  and 
when  you  have  numbered  his  labours,  and  received  their 
testimony,  if  it  seem  to  you  that  God  had  verily  poured 
out  upon  this  His  servant  no  common  nor  restrained 
portion  of  His  Spirit,  and  that  he  was  indeed  a  king 
among  the  children  of  men,  remember  also  that  the  legend 
upon  his  crown  was  that  of  David's :  —  "I  took  thee  from 
the  sheepcote,  and  from  following  the  sheep." 

The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture  (London,  184.9). 


6— Vol.  3 


THE   HOUSE   OF  JACQUES   COEUR 
IN   BOURGES. 

AD.   BERTY. 

CERTAINLY  Jacques  Coeur,  that  citizen  of  humble 
birth,  who,  by  his  merit  reached  the  highest  dignity 
of  state  at  an  epoch  when  aristocracy  reigned  supreme, 
this  man  of  genius,  who,  while  creating  a  maritime  commerce 
for  France,  amassed  so  great  a  fortune  for  himself  that  he 
was  able  to  help  towards  the  deliverance  of  his  own  country 
in  supporting  at  his  own  expense  four  armies  at  the  same 
time,  was  not  one  of  the  least  important  figures  of  the 
Fifteenth  Century.  Posterity  has  not  always  been  just  to 
this  illustrious  upstart :  he  should  be  ranked  immediately  after 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  for  the  sword  of  the  Maid  of  Domremy 
would,  perhaps,  have  been  powerless  to  chase  the  enemy 
from  the  soil  (which  a  cowardly  king  did  not  think  of  re- 
pulsing),  without  the  wise  economy  and  the  generous  sacri 
fices  of  him,  who,  at  a  later  period,  was  abandoned  by  the 
king  to  the  rapacity  of  his  courtiers  with  that  same  ignoble 
ingratitude  which  he  had  shown  to  the  sainte  libertrice  of 
the  great  nation  over  which  he  was  so  unworthy  to  rule. 

Jacques  Coeur  was  the  son  of  a  furrier,  or  according  to 
some  authorities,  a  goldsmith  of  Bourges.  He  was  probably 
following   his  father's  business  when  his  intelligence  and 


THE   HOUSE   OF  JACQUES   CCEUR   IN    BOURGES.  153 

talents  brought  him  into  the  notice  of  Charles  VII.,  who 
had  been  forced  to  take  refuge  in  the  capital  of  Berry  on 
account  of  the  English  conquests.  The  king  appointed 
him  to  the  mint,  then  made  him  master  of  this  branch  of 
administration,  and,  finally,  argentier,  a  title  equivalent  to 
superintendent  of  finance.  Coeur,  in  his  new  and  brilliant 
position,  did  not  abandon  commerce  to  which  he  owed  his 
fortune ;  his  ships  continued  to  furrow  the  seas,  and  three 
hundred  clerks  aided  him  in  bartering  European  products  for 
the  silks  and  spices  of  the  East  and  in  realizing  a  fortune. 
Always  fortunate  in  his  enterprises,  ennobled  :  by  the  king 
in  1440,  and  charged  by  him  with  many  important  political 
missions,  he  probably  did  not  know  how  to  resist  the  vertigo 
which  always  seizes  those  of  mean  origin  who  attain  great 
eminence,,  He  exhibited  an  extraordinary  luxury,  whose 
splendours  humiliated  the  pride  of  the  noble  courtiers, 
excited  their  hatred  and  envy,  and  contributed  to  his  ruin. 
With  little  regard  for  the  great  services  which  he  had 
rendered  to  the  country,  such  as,  for  example,  the  gift  of 
200,000  crowns  in  gold  at  the  time  of  the  expedition  of 
Normandy,  the  nobles  only  saw  in  the  magnificent  argentier 
an  unworthy  gambler,  who  should  be  deprived  of  his  immense 
wealth  2  for  their  profitc,  For  this  purpose  they  organized  a 
cabal.  Coeur  was  charged  with  a  multitude  of  crimes  :  he 
was  accused  of  having  poisoned  Agnes  Sorel,  who  had  made 

1  The  arms  of  Coeur  were  what  are  called  parlantes :  azure,  fess  or, 
charged  with  three  shells  or  (recalling  those  of  St.  James  his  patron), 
accompanied  by  three  hearts,  gules,  in  allusion  to  his  name. 

1  The  fortune  of  Jacques  Cceur  became  proverbial  ;  they  said  1 
(e  Riche  comme  Jacques  Cceur,'''' 


154  THE  HOUSE   OF  JACQUES   COZUR  IN   BOURGES. 

him  her  testamentary  executor,  of  having  altered  money, 
and  of  various  other  peculations  ;  he  was  also  reproached  for 
having  extorted  money  for  various  purposes  in  the  name  of 
the  king.   .  .   . 

The  sentence  of  Jacques  Coeur  was  not  entirely  executed ; 
he  was  not  banished,  but,  on  the  contrary,  was  imprisoned 
in  the  Convent  des  Cordeliers  de  Beaucaire.  Aided  by  one 
of  his  clerks,  Jean  de  Village,  who  had  married  his  niece,  he 
made  his  escape  and  went  to  Rome,  where  Pope  Calixtus 
III.,  at  that  moment  preparing  an  expedition  against  the 
Turks,  gave  him  command  of  a  flotilla.  Coeur  then  de- 
parted, but,  falling  ill  on  the  way,  he  disembarked  at  Chio, 
where  he  died  in  146 1.  His  body  was  buried  in  the  church 
of  the  Cordeliers  in  that  island. 

Of  the  different  houses  which  Jacques  Coeur  possessed, 
the  one  considered  among  the  most  beautiful  in  all  France, 
exists  almost  intact,  and  is  still  known  under  the  name  of 
the  Maison  de  Jacques  Cceur,  although  it  now  serves  for  a 
hall  of  justice  and  mayoralty.  This  house,  or  rather  this 
hotel,  was  built  between  the  years  1443  anc*  J453>  and  cost 
a  sum  equal  to  215,000  francs  of  our  money.  For  its  con- 
struction, Coeur,  having  bought  one  of  the  towers  of  the 
ramparts  of  Bourges,  commonly  called  Tour  de  la  chaussee, 
from  the  fief  of  this  name,  built  on  a  level  with  it  another 
and  more  beautiful  tower,  and  these  two  towers  served  as  a 
beginning  for  the  manoir,  which  was  called,  in  consequence, 
the  Hotel  de  la  chaussee.  In  building  it  they  used  stones 
taken  from  the  old  Roman  walls  of  the  town,  which  were 
on  the  site  of  the  new  hotel,  and  which  had  already  been 
pulled  down  by  virtue  of  a  charter  given  by  Louis  VIII. 


THE  HOUSE   OF  JACQUES   CGEUR   IN   BOURGES.   155 

in  1224,  by  which,  permission  had  been  granted  for  build- 
ing upon  the  ramparts  and  fortifications.  At  the  time  of 
the  revision  of  the  law-suit  of  Jacques  Coeur  under  Louis 
XL  the  hotel  was  given  back  to  his  heirs,  who  in  1552  sold 
it  to  Claude  de  l'Aubespine,  secretary  of  state.  By  a 
descendant  of  the  latter  it  was  ceded  to  Colbert  in  1679; 
Colbert  sold  it  again  to  the  town  of  Bourges  on  January 
30,  1682,  for  the  sum  of  33,000  livres.  Jacques  Coeur's 
house  was  therefore  destined  to  become  a  hotel-de-ville,  and, 
as  we  have  said,  still  exists  to-day. 

The  plan  of  the  building  is  an  irregular  pentagon,  com- 
posed of  different  bodies  of  buildings  joined  without  any 
symmetry,  according  to  the  general  disposition  of  almost 
all  mediaeval  civil  and  military  buildings.  The  large  towers 
are  Jacques  Coeur's  original  ones.  One  was  entirely  recon- 
structed by  him  with  the  exception  of  the  first  story,  which 
is  of  Roman  work,  as  the  layers  of  brick  and  masonry 
indicate;  the  other,  on  the  contrary,  received  only  its  crown 
and  a  new  interior  construction,  and,  like  the  first,  was 
flanked  by  a  tower  destined  to  serve  as  a  cage  for  the  stair- 
way. The  court  of  honour  is  vast,  and  arranged  so  that  it 
was  easy  to  communicate  with  the  different  parts  of  the 
hotel. 

The  facade  is  composed  of  a  pavilion  flanked  by  two 
wings.  Following  an  arrangement  borrowed  from  military 
architecture,  two  doors  were  contrived,  the  little  one  for 
the  foot-passengers  and  the  large  one,  which  was  the  door 
'of  honour,  thro  is;h  which  the  Cavaliers  entered.  Both 
had  pointed  arches  and  were  ornamented  with  an  archivolt 
with  crockets.     One  of  them  still   possessed,  until   about 


I56  THE  HOUSE   OF  JACQUES   COEUR  IN    BOURGES. 

a  dozen  years  ago,  its  ancient  sculptured  panels  and  orna- 
mental iron-work.  Above  these  doors  is  a  large  niche 
with  very  rich  ornamentation,  which  originally  sheltered 
the  equestrian  statue  of  Charles  VII.  On  its  right  and 
left  is  a  false  window,  in  which  you  see  the  statue  of 
a  man-servant  in  the  one  and  that  of  a  maid-servant  in  the 
other,  both  in  the  costume  of  the  period.  Above  this 
niche  the  wall  is  pierced  by  a  large  window  with  four  panes, 
whose  tracery  reproduces  hearts,  armes  par/antes  of  the 
proprietor,  and  a  fleur-de-lis,  a  sign  of  his  recognition  by 
King  Charles.  A  cornice  of  foliage  forms  the  top  of  the 
wall  of  the  pavilion,  which  is  crowned  by  a  very  high 
roof  with  four  sloping  and  concave  sides.  Upon  the  front 
and  back  faces  of  this  roof  is  a  large  skylight-window  and 
on  its  lateral  faces,  a  stock  of  chimneys.  On  the  summit 
of  the  roof  is  an  imposing  ridge  which  ends  with  two  long 
spikes. 

The  back  of  the  pavilion  is  exactly  like  the  front,  with 
the  exception  of  a  statue  of  Coeur  corresponding  to  that 
of  the  king.  To  the  right  of  the  pavilion  there  rises 
an  octagonal  campanile  of  great  elegance;  at  its  base  is 
a  balustrade  in  whose  open-work  runs  a  phylactery,  carry- 
ing the  motto,  which  is  frequently  repeated  in  the  building 
and  which  characterizes  perfectly  him  who  adopted  it : 

A  ijaillans  eceurs l  rien  d?  impossible* 

Notwithstanding  the  mutilations  to  which  the  house  of 
Jacques  Cceur  has  been  condemned  by  its  fate,  it  is  certainly 
«ne  of  the  most  interesting  and  best  preserved  of  all  the  civil 

1  The  word  eceurs  is  indicated  by  hearts. 


THE   HOUSE   OF  JACQUES   CCEUR   IN    BOURGES.   157 

buildings  of  the  Middle  Ages.  A  vast  amount  of  informa- 
tion regarding  the  intimate  life  of  the  people,  which  has  so 
great  an  attraction  for  the  archaeologist,  is  to  be  found  here. 
If  the  fact  that  the  study  of  buildings  should  be  the 
inseparable  companion  to  that  of  history  was  less  evident, 
the  house  of  Jacques  Coeur  would  afford  us  an  opportunity 
to  demonstrate  the  truth  ;  in  reality,  when  we  have  studied 
this  building  we  certainly  gain  a  much  clearer  idea  of  the 
manners  of  Charles  VII. 's  reign  than  could  be  obtained 
from  a  host  of  lecturers  upon  history. 

Jules  Gailhabaud,  Monuments  anciens  et  modernes  (Paris,  1865)0 


WAT    PHRA   KAO. 

CARL   BOCK. 

THE  first  glimpse  of  Siam  which  the  traveller  obtains 
at  Paknam  is  a  fair  sample  of  what  is  to  be  seen 
pretty  well  throughout  the  country.  As  Constantinople 
is  called  the  City  of  Mosques,  so  Bangkok  may,  with  even 
more  reason,  be  termed  the  City  of  Temples.  And  not 
in  Bangkok  only  and  its  immediate  neighbourhood,  but  in 
the  remotest  parts  of  the  country,  wherever  a  few  people 
live  now,  or  ever  have  lived,  a  Wat  with  its  image,  or 
collection  of  images,  of  Buddha,  is  to  be  found,  surrounded 
by  numberless  phrachedees,  those  curious  structures  which 
every  devout  Buddhist  —  and  all  Buddhists  are  in  one 
sense  or  another  devout  —  erects  at  every  turn  as  a  means 
of  gaining  favour  with  the  deity,  or  of  making  atonement 
for  his  sins.  On  the  rich  plains,  in  the  recesses  of  the 
forests,  on  the  tops  of  high  mountains,  in  all  directions, 
these  monuments  of  universal  allegiance  to  a  faith  which, 
more  perhaps  than  any  other,  claims  a  devotee  in  almost 
every  individual  inhabitant  of  the  lands  over  which  it  has 
once  obtained  sway,  are  to  be  found.  The  labour,  the 
time,  and  the  wealth  lavished  upon  these  structures  are 
beyond  calculation.  .  .  , 


WAT    PHRA    KAO.  159 

The   work    which,  in   popular  estimation  at  least,  will 
make  his  Majesty's  reign  most  memorable  in  Siam,  is  the 
completion  and  dedication  of  the  great  royal  temple,  Phra 
Sri  Ratana  Satsadaram,  or,  as  it  is  usually  called,  Wat  Phra 
Kao.     The  erection  of  this  magnificent  pile  of  buildings 
was  commenced  by  Phra  Puttha  Yot  Fa  Chulalok,  "  as  a 
temple    for    the    Emerald    Buddha,  the    palladium   of  the 
capital,  for  the  glory  of  the  king,  and  as  an  especial  work 
of   royal    piety."     This    temple   was    inaugurated    with   a 
grand   religious   festival  in  the  year   Maseng,    7th   of  the 
cycle,    1 147   (a.  d.   1785),   but,   having   been   very   hastily 
got  ready  for  the  celebration  of  the  third  anniversary  of  the 
foundation    of   the    capital,   it   was    incomplete,   only    the 
church  and  library  being  finished.      Various  additions  were 
made    from    time  to  time,   but   the   Wat  remained   in  an 
unfinished  state  until  the  present  king  came  to  the  throne. 
The  vow  to  complete  the  works  was  made   on  Tuesday, 
the   23rd   of   December,    1879.     The    works   were   com- 
menced during  the  next  month  and  completed  on  Monday, 
the    17th    of  April,    1882,   a  period  of   two    years,  three 
months,  and  twenty  days.      Thus  it  was  reserved  for   King 
Chulalonkorn,    at    an    enormous    outlay,  entirely    defrayed 
out  of  his  private  purse,  and  by  dint  of  great  exertions  on 
the    part    of   those    to  whom  the  work   was    immediately 
entrusted,  to  complete  this  structure,  and,  on  the  hundredth 
anniversary  of   the    capital    of  Siam,  to  give    the  city  its 
crowning  glory. 

The  work  was  placed  under  the  direct  superintendence 
of  the  king's  brothers,  each  of  whom  had  a  particular  part 
of  the  work  allotted  to  him.     One,  for  instance,  relaid  the 


l6o  WAT    PHRA    KAO, 

marble  pavement,  and  decorated  the  Obosot  with  pictures 
of  the  sacred  elephant ;  while  a  second  renewed  the  stone 
inscriptions  inside  the  Obosot ;  a  third  laid  down  a  brass 
pavement  in  the  Obosot ;  a  fourth  undertook  to  restore 
all  the  inlaid  pearl  work ;  another  undertook  the  work 
of  repairing  the  ceiling,  paving,  and  wall-decoration,  and 
made  three  stands  for  the  seals  of  the  kingdom  ;  another 
changed  the  decayed  roof-beams ;  another  covered  the 
great  phrachedee  with  gold  tiles  —  the  effect  of  which  in 
the  brilliant  sunlight  is  marvellously  beautiful  —  and  re- 
paired and  gilded  all  the  small  phrachedees ;  another 
renewed  and  repaired  and  redecorated  all  the  stone  orna- 
ments and  flower-pots  in  the  temple-grounds,  and  made 
the  copper-plated  and  gilt  figures  of  demons,  and  purchased 
many  marble  statues ;  two  princes  divided  between  them 
the  repairs  of  the  cloisters,  renewing  the  roof  where  re- 
quired, painting,  gilding,  paving  with  stone,  and  complet- 
ing the  capitals  of  columns,  and  so  on.  Thus,  by  division 
of  labour,  under  the  stimulus  of  devotion  to  the  religion 
of  the  country,  and  of  brotherly  loyalty  to  the  king,  the 
great  work  was  at  length  completed,  after  having  been 
exactly  one  hundred  years  in  course  of  construction.  On 
the  2 1st  of  April,  1882,  the  ceremony  of  final  dedication 
was  performed,  with  the  greatest  pomp,  and  amid  general 
rejoicings. 

Under  the  name  "  Wat  Phra  Kao  "  are  included  various 
buildings  covering  a  large  area  of  ground,  which  is  sur- 
rounded by  walls  decorated  with  elaborate  frescoes.  In 
the  centre  is  a  temple,  called  the  Phra  Marodop,  built 
in   the   form  of  a  cross,  where  on   festive  occasions   the 


WAT    PHRA    KAO.  l6l 

king  goes  to  hear  a  sermon  from  the  prince-high- priest. 
The  walls  of  this  building  are  richly  decorated  with 
inlaid  work,  and  the  ceiling  painted  with  a  chaste  design 
in  blue  and  gold.  The  most  striking  feature,  however, 
is  the  beautiful  work  in  the  ebony  doors,  which  are  elab- 
orately inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl  figures  representing 
Thewedas,  bordered  by  a  rich  scroll.  Behind  this  chapel- 
royal  is  the  great  phrachedee,  called  the  Sri  Ratana 
Phrachedee,  entirely  covered  with  gilt  tiles,  which  are 
specially  made  for  the  purpose  in  Germany  to  the  order 
of  H.  R.  H.  Krom   Mun  Aditson   Udom  Det. 

There  are  several  other  large  buildings  in  the  temple- 
grounds,  but  the  structure  in  which  the  interest  of  the 
place  centres  is  the  Obosot,  which  shelters  the  famous 
"  Emerald  Buddha,"  a  green  jade  figure  of  matchless 
beauty,  which  was  found  at  Kiang  Hai  in  a.  d.  1436, 
and,  after  various  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  was  at  last  placed 
in  safety  in  the  royal  temple  at  Bangkok.  This  image  is, 
according  to  the  season  of  the  year,  differently  attired  in 
gold  ornaments  and  robes.  The  Emerald  Buddha  is 
raised  so  high  up,  at  the  very  summit  of  a  high  altar,  that 
it  is  somewhat  difficult  to  see  it,  especially  as  light  is  not 
over  plentiful,  the  windows  being  generally  kept  closely 
shuttered.  For  the  convenience  of  visitors,  however,  the 
attendants  will  for  a  small  fee  open  one  or  two  of  the 
heavy  shutters,  which  are  decorated  on  the  outside  with 
gilt  figures  of  Thewedas  in  contorted  attitudes.  When 
at  last  the  sun's  rays  are  admitted  through  the  "  dim 
religious  light,"  and  the  beam  of  brightness  shines  on  the 
resplendent    figure  —  enthroned    above    a    gorgeous    array 


162  WAT    PHRA    KAO. 

of  coloured  vases,  with  real  flowers  and  their  waxen  imita- 
tions, of  gold,  silver,  and  bronze  representations  of  Buddha, 
of  Bohemian  glassware,  lamps,  and  candlesticks,  with  here 
and  there  a  flickering  taper  still  burning,  and  surrounded 
with  a  profusion  of  many-storied  umbrellas,  emblems  of 
the  esteem  in  which  the  gem  is  held  —  the  scene  is  re- 
markably beautiful,  and  well  calculated  to  have  a  lasting 
effect  on  the  minds  of  those  who  are  brought  up  to  see  in 
the  calm,  solemn,  and  dignified  form  of  Buddha  the  repre- 
sentation of  all  that  is  good  here,  and  the  symbol  of  all 
happiness  hereafter.  The  floor  of  the  Obosot  is  of  tes- 
sellated brass,  and  the  walls  are  decorated  with  the  usual 
perspectiveless  frescoes,  representing  scenes  in  Siamese  or 
Buddhist  history. 

It  is  in  this  Obosot  that  the  semi-annual  ceremony  of 
Tunam,  or  drinking  the  water  of  allegiance,  takes  place, 
when  the  subjects  of  Siam,  through  their  representatives, 
and  the  princes  and  high  officers  of  state,  renew  or 
confirm  their  oath  of  allegiance.  The  ceremony  consists 
of  drinking  water  sanctified  by  the  priests,  and  occurs 
twice  a  year  —  on  the  third  day  of  the  waxing  of  the 
Siamese  fifth  month  (i.  e.,  the  ist  of  April),  and  on  the 
thirteenth  day  of  the  waning  of  the  Siamese  tenth  month 
(i.  e.,  the  2ist  of  September). 

The  foregoing  description  gives  but  a  faint  idea  of  this 
sacred     and     historic    edifice,    which    will     henceforth    1 
regarded  as  a  symbol  of  the  rule  of  the  present   Siam 
dynasty,  and  the  completion  of  which  will   mark  an   ej 
in  Siamese  history. 

Temples  and  Elephants  (London,  1884). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   TOLEDO. 

THEOPHILE   GAUTIER. 

THE  exterior  of  the  Cathedral  of  Toledo  is  far  less 
ornate  than  that  of  the  Cathedral  of  Burgos  :  it 
has  no  efflorescence  of  ornaments,  no  arabesques,  and  no 
collarette  of  statues  enlivening  the  porches ;  it  has  solid 
buttresses,  bold  and  sharp  angles,  a  thick  facing  of  stone, 
a  stolid  tower,  with  no  delicacies  of  the  Gothic  jewel-work, 
and  it  is  covered  entirely  with  a  reddish  tint,  like  that  of  a 
piece  of  toast,  or  the  sunburnt  skin  of  a  pilgrim  from  Pales- 
tine ;  as  if  to  make  up  the  loss,  the  interior  is  hollowed  and 
sculptured  like  a  grotto  of  stalactites. 

The  door  by  which  we  entered  is  of  bronze,  and  bears 
the  following  inscription  :  Antonio  Zurreno  del  arte  de  oro  y 
p/ata,  faciebat  esta  media  pueria.  The  first  impression  is 
most  vivid  and  imposing  ;  five  naves  divide  the  church  :  the 
middle  one  is  of  an  immeasurable  height,  and  the  others 
beside  it  seem  to  bow  their  heads  and  kneel  in  token  of 
admiration  and  respect ;  eighty-eight  pillars,  each  as  large  as  a 
tower  and  each  composed  of  sixteen  spindle-shaped  columns 
bound  together,  sustain  the  enormous  mass  of  the  building ; 
a  transept  cuts  the  large  nave  between  the  choir  and  the 
high  altar,  and  forms  the  arms  of  the  cross.  The  archi- 
tecture of  the  entire  building  is  homogeneous  and  perfect, 


164  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TOLEDO. 

a  very  rare  virtue  in  Gothic  cathedrals,  which  have  gener- 
ally been  built  at  different  periods ;  the  original  plan  has 
been  adhered  to  from  one  end  to  the  other,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  arrangements  of  the  chapels,  which,  however, 
do  not  interfere  with  the  harmony  of  the  general  effect. 
The  windows,  glittering  with  hues  of  emerald,  sapphire, 
and  ruby  set  in  the  ribs  of  stone,  worked  like  rings,  sift  in 
a  soft  and  mysterious  light  which  inspires  religious  ecstasy  ; 
and,  when  the  sun  is  too  strong,  blinds  of  spartium  are  let 
down  over  the  windows,  and  through  the  building  is  then 
diffused  that  cool  half-twilight  which  makes  the  churches 
of  Spain  so  favourable  for  meditation  and  prayer. 

The  high  altar,  or  retablo,  alone  might  pass  for  a  church  ; 
it  is  an  enormous  accumulation  of  small  columns,  niches, 
statues,  foliage,  and  arabesques,  of  which  the  most  minute 
description  would  give  but  a  faint  idea ;  all  this  sculpture, 
which  extends  up  to  the  vaulted  roof  and  all  around  the 
sanctuary,  is  painted  and  gilded  with  unimaginable  wealth. 
The  warm  and  tawny  tones  of  the  antique  gold,  illumined 
by  the  rays  and  patches  of  light  interrupted  in  their  passage 
by  the  tracery  and  projections  of  the  ornaments,  stand  out 
superbly  and  produce  the  most  admirable  effects  of  grandeur 
and  richness.  The  paintings,  with  their  backgrounds  of 
gold  which  adorn  the  panels  of  this  altar,  equal  in  richness 
of  colour  the  most  brilliant  Venetian  canvases ;  this  union 
of  colour  with  the  severe  and  almost  hieratic  forms  of 
mediaeval  art  is  rarely  found ;  some  of  these  paintings  might 
be  taken  for  Giorgione's  first  manner. 

Opposite  to  the  high  altar  is  placed  the  choir,  or  silleria, 
according  to  the  Spanish  custom  ;  it  is  composed  of  three 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TOLEDO.  165 

rows  of  stalls  in  sculptured  wood,  hollowed  and  carved  in 
a  marvellous  manner  with  historical,  allegorical,  and  sacred 
bas-reliefs.  Gothic  Art,  on  the  borderland  of  the  Renais- 
sance, has  never  produced  anything  more  pure,  more  per- 
fect, or  better  drawn.  This  work,  the  details  of  which 
are  appalling,  has  been  attributed  to  the  patient  chisels  of 
Philippe  de  Bourgogne  and  Berruguete.  The  archbishop's 
stall,  which  is  higher  than  the  rest,  is  shaped  like  a  throne 
and  marks  the  centre  of  the  choir ;  this  prodigious  carpentry 
is  crowned  by  gleaming  columns  of  brown  jasper,  and  on 
the  entablature  stand  alabaster  figures,  also  by  Philippe  de 
Bourgogne  and  Berruguete,  but  in  a  freer  and  more  supple 
style,  elegant  and  admirable  in  effect.  Enormous  bronze 
reading-desks  supporting  gigantic  missals,  large  spartium 
mats,  and  two  colossal  organs  placed  opposite  to  each 
other,  one  to  the  right  and  one  to  the  left,  complete  the 
decorations.   .   .   . 

The  Mozarabic  Chapel,  which  is  still  in  existence,  is 
adorned  with  Gothic  frescoes  of  the  highest  interest :  the 
subjects  are  the  combats  between  the  Toledans  and  the 
Moors ;  they  are  in  a  state  of  perfect  preservation,  their 
colours  are  as  bright  as  if  they  had  been  laid  on  yesterday, 
and  by  means  of  them  an  archaeologist  would  gain  a  vast 
amount  of  information  regarding  arms,  costumes,  accoutre- 
ments, and  architecture,  for  the  principal  fresco  represents  a 
view  of  old  Toledo,  which  is,  doubtless,  very  accurate.  In 
the  lateral  frescoes  the  ships  which  brought  the  Arabs  to 
Spain  are  painted  in  detail ;  a  seaman  might  gather  much 
useful  information  from  them  regarding  the  obscure  history 
of  the  mediaeval  navy.     The  arms  of  Toledo  —  five  stars, 


l66  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TOLEDO. 

:able  on  a  field,  argent  —  are  repeated  in  several  places  in 
this  low-vaulted  chapel,  which,  according  to  the  Spanish 
fashion,  is  enclosed  by  a  grille  of  beautiful  workmanship. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Virgin,  which  is  entirely  faced  with 
beautifully  polished  porphyry,  jasper,  and  yellow  and  violet 
breccia,  is  of  a  richness  surpassing  the  splendours  of  the 
Thousand  and  One  Nights ;  many  relics  are  preserved  here, 
among  them  a  reliquary  presented  by  Saint  Louis,  which 
contains  a  piece  of  the  True  Cross. 

To  recover  our  breath,  let  us  make,  if  you  please,  the 
tour  of  the  cloisters,  whose  severe  yet  elegant  arcades 
surround  beautiful  masses  of  verdure,  kept  green,  notwith- 
standing the  devouring  heat  of  this  season,  by  the  shadow 
of  the  Cathedral ;  the  walls  of  this  cloister  are  covered 
with  frescoes  in  the  style  of  Vanloo,  by  a  painter  named 
Bayeu.  These  compositions  are  simple  and  pleasing  in 
colour,  but  they  do  not  harmonize  with  the  style  of  the 
building,  and  probably  supplant  ancient  works  damaged  by 
centuries,  or  found  too  Gothic  for  the  people  of  good  taste 
in  that  time.  It  is  very  fitting  to  place  a  cloister  near  a 
church  ;  it  affords  a  happy  transition  from  the  tranquillity 
of  the  sanctuary  to  the  turmoil  of  the  city.  You  can  go 
to  it  to  walk  about,  to  dream,  or  to  reflect,  without  being 
forced  to  join  in  the  prayers  and  ceremonies  of  a  cult ; 
Catholics  go  to  the  temple,  Christians  remain  more  fre- 
quently in  the  cloisters.  This  attitude  of  mind  has  been 
perfectly  understood  by  that  marvellous  psychologist  the 
Catholic  Church.  In  religious  countries  the  Cathedral  is 
always  the  most  ornamented,  richest,  most  gilded,  and 
most  florid  of  all  buildings  in  the  townj  it  is  there  that 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TOLEDO.  167 

one  finds  the  coolest  shade  and  the  deepest  peace ;  the 
music  there  is  better  than  in  the  theatre ;  and  it  has  no 
rival  in  pomp  of  display.  It  is  the  central  point,  the 
magnetic  spot,  like  the  Opera  in  Paris.  We  Catholics  of 
the  North,  with  our  Vottairean  temples,  have  no  idea  of  the 
luxury,  elegance,  and  comfort  of  the  Spanish  cathedrals; 
these  churches  are  furnished  and  animated,  and  have 
nothing  of  that  glacial,  desert-like  appearance  of  ours ;  the 
faithful  can  live  in  them  on  familiar  terms  with  their 
God. 

The  sacristies  and  rooms  of  the  Chapter  in  the  Cathe- 
dral of  Toledo  have  a  more  than  royal  magnificence ; 
nothing  could  be  more  noble  and  picturesque  than  these 
vast  halls  decorated  with  that  solid  and  severe  luxury  of 
which  the  Church  alone  has  the  secret.  Here  are  rare 
carpentry-work  in  carved  walnut  or  black  oak,  portieres  of 
tapestry  or  Indian  damask,  curtains  of  brocatelle,  with 
sumptuous  folds,  figured  brocades,  Persian  carpets,  and 
paintings  of  fresco.  We  will  not  try  to  describe  them 
in  detail ;  we  will  only  speak  of  one  room  ornamented 
with  admirable  frescoes  depicting  religious  subjects  in  the 
German  style  of  which  the  Spaniards  have  made  such 
successful  imitations,  and  which  have  been  attributed  to 
Berruguete's  nephew,  if  not  to  Berruguete  himself,  for 
these  prodigious  geniuses  followed  simultaneously  three 
branches  of  art.  We  will  also  mention  an  enormous 
ceiling  by  Luca  Giordano,  where  is  collected  a  whole 
world  of  angels  and  allegorical  figures  in  the  most  rapidly 
executed  foreshortening  which  produce  a  singular  optical 
illusion.     From  the  middle  of  the  roof  springs  a  ray  of  light 


168  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF  TOLEDO. 

so  wonderfully  painted  on  the  flat  surface  that  it  seems  to 
fall  perpendicularly  on  your  head,  no  matter  from  which 
side  you  view  it. 

It  is  here  that  they  keep  the  treasure,  that  is  to  say 
the  beautiful  copes  of  brocade,  cloth  of  gold  and  silver 
damask,  the  marvellous  laces,  the  silver-gilt  reliquaries, 
the  monstrances  of  diamonds,  the  gigantic  silver  candle- 
sticks, the  embroidered  banners, —  all  the  material  and 
accessories  for  the  representation  of  that  sublime  Catholic 
drama  which  we  called  the  Mass. 

In  the  cupboards  in  one  of  the  rooms  is  preserved  the 
wardrobe  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  for  cold,  naked  statues  of 
marble  or  alabaster  do  not  suffice  for  the  passionate  piety 
of  the  Southern  race ;  in  their  devout  transport  they  load 
the  object  of  their  worship  with  ornaments  of  extravagant 
richness  ;  nothing  is  good  enough,  brilliant  enough,  or  costly 
enough  for  them  ;  under  this  shower  of  precious  stones,  the 
form  and  material  of  the  figure  disappear :  nobody  cares 
about  that.  The  main  thing  is  that  it  should  be  an  impos- 
sibility to  hang  another  pearl  in  the  ears  of  the  marble 
idol,  to  insert  another  diamond  in  its  golden  crown,  or  to 
trace  another  leaf  of  gems  in  the  brocade  of  its  dress. 

Never  did  an  ancient  queen,  —  not  even  Cleopatra  who 
drank  pearls,  —  never  did  an  empress  of  the  Lower  Empire, 
never  did  a  Venetian  courtesan  in  the  time  of  Titian, 
possess  more  brilliant  jewels  nor  a  richer  wardrobe  than 
Our  Lady  of  Toledo.  They  showed  us  some  of  her 
robes  :  one  of  them  left  you  no  idea  as  to  the  material  cf 
which  it  was  made,  so  entirely  was  it  covered  with  flowers 
and  arabesques  of  seed-pearls,   among  which    there   were 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TOLEDO.  169 

others  of  a  size  beyond  all  price  and  several  rows  of  black 
pearls,  which  are  of  almost  unheard-of  rarity ;  suns  and 
stars  of  jewels  also  constellate  this  precious  gown,  which  is 
so  brilliant  that  the  eye  can  scarcely  bear  its  splendour,  and 
which  is  worth  many  millions  of  francs. 

We  ended  our  visit  by  ascending  the  bell-tower,  the 
summit  of  which  is  reached  by  a  succession  of  ladders, 
sufficiently  steep  and  not  very  reassuring.  About  half  way 
up,  in  a  kind  of  store-room,  through  which  you  pass,  we 
saw  a  row  of  gigantic  marionettes,  coloured  and  dressed  in 
the  fashion  of  the  last  century,  and  used  in  I  don't  know 
what  kind  of  a  procession  similar  to  that  of  Tarascon. 

The  magnificent  view  which  is  seen  from  the  tall 
spire  amply  repays  you  for  all  the  fatigue  of  the  ascent. 
The  whole  town  is  presented  before  you  with  all  the 
sharpness  and  precision  of  M.  Pelet's  cork-models,  so 
much  admired  at  the  last  Exposition  de  Pindustrie.  This 
comparison  is  doubtless  very  prosaic  and  unpicturesque  j 
but  really  I  cannot  find  a  better,  nor  a  more  accurate  one. 
The  dwarfed  and  misshapen  rocks  of  blue  granite,  which 
encase  the  Tagus  and  encircle  the  horizon  of  Toledo  on 
one  side,  add  still  more  to  the  singularity  of  the  landscape, 
inundated  and  dominated  by  crude,  pitiless,  blinding  light, 
which  no  reflections  temper  and  which  is  increased  by  the 
cloudless  and  vapourless  sky  quivering  with  white  heat  like 
iron  in  a  furnace. 

Voyage  en  Espagne  (Paris,  new  ed.  1865). 


THE   CHATEAU   DE   CHAMBORD. 

JULES    LOISELEUR. 

CHAMBORD  is  the  Versailles  of  the  feudal  mon- 
archy ;  it  was  to  the  Chateau  de  Blois,  that  central 
residence  of  the  Valois,  what  Versailles  was  to  the  Tuileries-, 
it  was  the  country-seat  of  Royalty.  Tapestries  from  Arras, 
Venetian  mirrors,  curiously  sculptured  chests,  crystal  chan- 
deliers, massive  silver  furniture,  and  miracles  of  all  the  arts 
amassed  in  this  palace  during  eight  reigns  and  dispersed  in  a 
single  day  by  the  breath  of  the  Revolution,  can  never  be  col- 
lected again  save  under  one  condition  :  that  there  should  be 
a  sovereign  sufficiently  powerful  and  sufficiently  artistic, 
sufficiently  concerned  about  the  glory  and  the  memories  of 
the  ancient  monarchy  to  make  of  Chambord  what  has  been 
made  out  of  the  Louvre  and  Versailles  —  a  museum  con- 
secrated to  all  the  intimate  marvels,  to  all  the  curiosities  of 
the  Arts  of  the  Renaissance,  at  least  to  all  those  with  which 
the  sovereigns  were  surrounded,  something  like  the  way  the 
Hotel  de  Cluny  exhibits  royal  life. 

It  has  often  been  asked  why  Francois  I.,  to  whom  the 
banks  of  the  Loire  presented  many  marvellous  sites,  selected 
a  wild  and  forsaken  spot  in  the  midst  of  arid  plains  for  the 
erection  of  the  strange  building  which  he  planned.  This 
peculiar  choice  has  been  attributed  to  that  prince's  passion 


THE    CHATEAU    DE    CHAMBORD.  171 

for  the  chase  and  in  memory  of  his  amours  with  the  beauti- 
ful Comtesse  de  Thoury,  chatelaine  in  that  neighbourhood, 
before  he  ascended  the  throne. 

Independently  of  these  motives,  which  doubtless  counted 
greatly  in  his  selection,  perhaps  the  very  wildness  of  this 
place,  this  distance  from  the  Loire,  which  reminded  him  too 
much  of  the  cares  of  Royalty,  was  a  determining  reason. 
Kings,  like  private  individuals,  and  even  more  than  they, 
experience  the  need  at  times  of  burying  themselves,  and 
therefore  make  a  hidden  and  far-away  nest  where  they  may 
be  their  own  masters  and  live  to  please  themselves.  More- 
over, Chambord,  with  its  countless  rooms,  its  secret  stair- 
ways, and  its  subterranean  passages,  seems  to  have  been 
built  for  a  love  which  seeks  shadow  and  mystery.  At  the 
same  time  that  he  hid  Chambord  in  the  heart  of  the  uncul- 
tivated plains  of  the  Sologne,  Francois  I.  built  in  the  midst 
of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  a  chateau,  where,  from  time  to 
time,  he  shut  himself  up  with  learned  men  and  artists,  and 
to  which  the  courtiers,  who  were  positively  forbidden  there, 
gave  the  name  of  Madrid,  in  memory  of  the  prison  in 
which  their  master  had  suffered.  Chambord,  like  Madrid, 
was  not  a  prison  :   it  was  a  retreat. 

That  sentiment  of  peculiar  charm  which  is  attached  to 
the  situation  of  Chambord  will  be  felt  by  every  artist  who 
visits  this  strange  realization  of  an  Oriental  dream.  At  the 
end  of  a  long  avenue  of  poplars  breaking  through  thin 
underbrush  which  bears  an  illustrious  name,  like  all  the 
roads  to  this  residence,  you  see,  little  by  little,  peeping  and 
mounting  upward  from  the  earth,  a  fairy  building,  which, 
rising  in  the  midst  of  arid  sand  and  heath,  produces  the  most 


172  THE    CHATEAU    DE    CHAMEORD. 

striking  and  unexpected  effect.  A  genie  of  the  Orient, 
a  poet  has  said,  must  have  stolen  it  from  the  country 
of  sunshine  to  hide  it  in  the  country  of  fog  for  the  amours 
of  a  handsome  prince.  At  the  summit  of  an  imposing 
mass  of  battlements,  of  which  the  first  glance  discerns 
neither  the  style  nor  the  order,  above  terraces  with  orna- 
mental balustrades,  springs  up,  as  if  from  a  fertile  and  inex- 
haustible soil,  an  incredible  vegetation  of  sculptured  stone, 
worked  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  It  is  a  forest  of 
campaniles,  chimneys,  sky-lights,  domes,  and  towers,  in 
lace-work  and  open-work,  twisted  according  to  a  caprice 
which  excludes  neither  harmony  nor  unity,  and  which  orna- 
ments with  the  Gothic  F  the  salamanders  and  also  the 
mosaics  of  slate  imitating  marble,  —  a  singular  poverty  in 
the  midst  of  so  much  wealth.  The  beautiful  open-worked 
tower  of  the  large  staircase  dominates  the  entire  mass  of 
pinnacles  and  steeples,  and  bathes  in  the  blue  sky  its  co- 
lossal fleur-de-lis,  the  last  point  of  the  highest  pinnacle 
among  pinnacles,  the  highest  crown  among  all  crowns.  .  .  . 

We  must  take  Chambord  for  what  it  is,  an  ancient 
Gothic  chateau  dressed  out  in  great  measure  according  to 
the  fashion  of  the  Renaissance. 

In  no  other  place  is  the  transition  from  one  style  to 
another  revealed  in  a  way  so  impressive  and  naive ;  nowhere 
else  does  the  brilliant  butterfly  of  the  Renaissance  show 
itself  more  deeply  imprisoned  in  the  heavy  Gothic  chrysalis. 
If  Chambord,  by  its  plan  which  is  essentially  French  and 
feudal,  by  its  enclosure  flanked  with  towers,  and  by  the 
breadth  of  its  heavy  mass,  slavishly  recalls  the  mediaeval 
manoirS)  by  its  lavish  profusion  of  ornamentation  it  suggests 


THE    CHATEAU    DE    CHAMBORD.  173 

the  creations  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  as  far  as  the  begin- 
ning of  the  roofs  ;  it  is  Gothic  as  far  as  the  platform  j  and 
it  belongs  to  the  Renaissance  when  it  comes  to  the  roof 
itself.  It  may  be  compared  to  a  rude  French  knight  of 
the  Fourteenth  Century,  who  is  wearing  on  his  cuirass 
some  fine  Italian  embroideries,  and  on  his  head  the  plumed 
felt  of  Francois  I.,  —  assuredly  an  incongruous  costume, 
but  not  without  character.   .  .   . 

The  chateau  should  be  entered  by  one  of  the  four  doors 
which  open  in  the  centre  of  the  donjon.  Nothing  is  more 
fantastic,  and,  at  the  same  time,  magnificent  than  the 
spectacle  which  greets  the  eye.  It  seems  more  like  one 
of  those  fairy  palaces  which  we  see  at  the  Opera,  than  a 
real  building.  Neglect  and  nakedness  give  it  an  additional 
value  and  double  its  immensity.  On  entering  this  vast 
solitude  of  stone,  we  are  seized  with  that  respectful  silence 
which  involuntarily  strikes  us  under  high  and  solitary 
vaults.  In  the  centre  of  the  vast  Salle  des  Gardes,  which 
occupies  the  entire  ground-floor,  and  to  which  the  four 
towers  of  the  donjon  give  the  form  of  the  Greek  cross, 
rises  a  monumental  stairway  which  divides  this  hall  into 
four  equal  parts,  each  being  fifty  feet  long  and  thirty  feet 
broad.  This  bold  conception  justifies  its  celebrity :  the 
stairway  at  Chambord  is  in  itself  a  monument.  The 
staircase,  completely  isolated  and  open-worked,  is  com- 
posed of  posts  which  follow  the  winding.  Two  flights  of 
stairs,  one  above  the  other,  unfold  in  helices  and  pass 
alternately  one  over  the  other  without  meeting.  This  will 
explain  how  two  persons  could  ascend  at  the  same  time 
without   meeting,  yet   perceiving   each  other  at  intervals. 


174  THE    CHATEAU    DE    CHAMBORD. 

Even  while  looking  at  this,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  this 
arrangement,,  These  two  helices,  which  are  placed  above 
each  other  and  which  turn  over  and  over  each  other  with- 
out ever  uniting,  have  exactly  the  curve  of  a  double 
corkscrew.  I  believe  that  no  other  comparison  can  give 
a  more  exact  idea  of  this  celebrated  work  which  has 
exhausted  the  admiration  and  the  eulogy  of  all  the  connois- 
seurs. "  What  merits  the  greatest  praise,"  writes  Blondel 
in  his  Lemons  a"  architecture^  "  is  the  ingenious  disposition 
of  that  staircase  of  double  flights,  crossing  each  other  and 
both  common  to  the  same  newel.  One  cannot  admire 
too  greatly  the  lightness  of  its  arrangement,  the  boldness 
of  its  execution,  and  the  delicacy  of  its  ornaments,  —  per- 
fection which  astonishes  and  makes  it  difficult  to  conceive 
how  any  one  could  imagine  a  design  so  picturesque  and 
how  it  could  be  put  into  execution."  The  author  of 
Cinq  Mars  taking  up  this  same  idea  says  :  "  It  is  difficult 
to  conceive  how  the  plan  was  drawn  and  how  the  orders 
were  given  to  the  workmen  :  it  seems  a  fugitive  thought, 
a  brilliant  idea  which  must  have  taken  material  form 
suddenly  —  a  realized  dream."   .   .   . 

In  going  through  the  high  halls  and  long  corridors 
which  lead  from  one  chapel  to  the  other,  one  likes  to 
restore  in  imagination  the  rich  furniture,  the  tapestries, 
the  glazed  tiles  of  faience,  and  the  ceilings  incrusted  with 
tin  fleur-de-lis,  which  formed  its  decoration.  Each  gallery 
was  filled  with  frescoes  by  Jean  Cousin  and  the  principal 
works  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  .  .  .  The  breath  of  the 
Revolution  has  scattered  and  destroyed  all  these  rarities. 
For  fifteen  days  the   flippers  ran  from   all   points  of  the 


THE  CHATEAU  DE  CHAMBORD.       175 

province  to  divide  the  paintings,  the  precious  enamels, 
the  chests  of  oak  and  ebony,  the  sculptured  pulpits,  and  the 
high-posted  beds  covered  with  armorial  hangings.  They 
sold  at  auction  all  the  souvenirs  of  the  glory  of  the  mon' 
archy.     What  they  could  not  sell,  they  burned.   .  .   . 

When  we  descend  the  noble  staircase  which  Francois  I. 
ordered,  which  an  unknown  artist  executed,  and  which 
deserves  to  be  credited  to  Primaticcio,  it  is  impossible  not 
to  look  back  upon  the  Past.  What  illustrious  feet  have 
trod,  what  eyes  have  beheld  these  marvels  !  What  hands, 
now  cold,  charming  hands  of  queens,  or  courtesans  more 
powerful  than  those  queens,  and  rude  hands  of  warriors, 
or  statesmen,  have  traced  on  these  white  stones  names 
celebrated  in  that  day,  but  now  effaced  from  the  walls, 
as  they  are  each  day  more  and  more  effaced  from  the 
memory  of  men  !  The  wheel  of  Time,  which  broke  in 
its  revolution,  has  only  left  enough  in  this  chateau  for  us 
to  observe  and  reconstruct  in  imagination  personages  great 
enough  to  harmonize  with  such  grandeur,  and  to  excite 
in  us  that  pious  respect  which  must  always  be  attached 
to  everything  about  to  end.  Another  turn  of  the  wheel 
and  ruin  will  begin.  "  Ce  chateau"  a  poet  has  said,  u  est 
Jrapp'e  de  malediction."  x  .   .   . 

To-day,  and  during  two  Revolutions,  the  chief  of  the 
eldest  branch  of  the  Bourbons  has  remained  the  master 
of  Chambord.  Between  this  exiled  master  and  this  deserted 
castle  there  is  an  intimate  and  sad  relation  which  will 
touch  the  most  unsympathetic  heart.  Each  stone  that 
falls  in  the  grasg-grown  court  without  a  human  ear  to  take 
1  Chateaubriand,  La  Vie  de  Rand. 


I76  THE    CHATEAU    DE    CHAMBORD. 

note  of  the  noise, —  is  it  not  the  parallel  of  an  obliterated 
memory,  a  hope  that  is  ever  weakening  ?  In  the  absence 
of  this  master,  who,  doubtless,  will  never  return,  the  old 
chateau  falls  into  the  shadow  and  silence  which  belong  to 
fallen  majesty.  It  awaits  in  this  grave  and  slightly  morose 
sorrow  those  great  vicissitudes,  which  are  imposed  on 
stones,  as  on  men,  that  the  Future  has  in  store. 

Les  Residences  royales  de  la  Loire  (Paris,  1863). 


THE   TEMPLES   OF   NIKKO. 

PIERRE   LOTI. 

He  who  has  not  beheld  Nikko,  has  no  right  to  make  use  of  the 
word  splendour.  Japanese  Proverb. 

IN  the  heart  of  the  large  island  of  Niphon  and  in  a 
mountainous  and  wooded  region,  fifty  leagues  from 
Yokohama,  is  hidden  that  marvel  of  marvels  —  the  necrop- 
olis of  the  Japanese  Emperors. 

There,  on  the  declivity  of  the  Holy  Mountain  of  Nikko, 
under  cover  of  a  dense  forest  and  in  the  midst  of  cascades 
whose  roar  among  the  shadows  of  the  cedars  never  ceases, 
is  a  series  of  enchanting  temples,  made  of  bronze  and  lacquer 
with  roofs  of  gold,  which  look  as  if  a  magic  ring  must  have 
called  them  into  existence  among  the  ferns  and  mosses  and 
the  green  dampness,  over-arched  by  dark  branches  and 
surrounded  by  the  wildness  and  grandeur  of  Nature. 

Within  these  temples  there  is  an  inconceivable  magnifi- 
cence, a  fairy-like  splendour.  Nobody  is  about,  except  a 
few  guardian  bonzes  who  chant  hymns,  and  several  white- 
robed  priestesses  who  perform  the  sacred  dances  whilst 
waving  their  fans.  Every  now  and  then  the  slow  vibra- 
tions of  an  enormous  bronze  gong,  or  the  dull,  heavy  blows 
on  a  monstrous  prayer-drum  are  heard  in  the  deep   and 


178  THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO. 

echoing  forest.  At  other  times  there  are  certain  sounds 
which  really  seem  to  be  a  part  of  the  silence  and  solitude, 
the  chirp  of  the  grasshoppers,  the  cry  of  the  falcons  in  the 
air,  the  chatter  of  the  monkeys  in  the  branches,  and  the 
monotonous  fall  of  the  cascades. 

All  this  dazzling  gold  in  the  mystery  of  the  forest  makes 
these  sepulchres  unique.  This  is  the  Mecca  of  Japan  ; 
this  is  the  heart,  as  yet  inviolate,  of  this  country  which  is 
now  gradually  sinking  in  the  great  Occidental  current,  but 
which  has  had  a  magnificent  Past.  Those  were  strange 
mystics  and  very  rare  artists  who,  three  or  four  hundred 
years  ago,  realized  all  this  magnificence  in  the  depths  of 
the  woods  and   for  their  dead.   .   .   . 

We  stop  before  the  first  temple.  It  stands  a  little  off  to 
itself  in  a  kind  of  glade.  You  approach  it  by  a  garden 
with  raised  terraces ;  a  garden  with  grottos,  fountains, 
and  dwarf-trees  with  violet,  yellow,  or  reddish  foliage. 

The  vast  temple  is  entirely  red,  and  blood-red ;  an 
enormous  black  and  gold  roof,  turned  up  at  the  corners, 
seems  to  crush  it  with  its  weight.  From  it  comes  a  kind 
of  religious  music,  soft  and  slow,  interrupted  from  time  to 
time  by  a  heavy  and  horrible  blow. 

It  is  wide  open,  open  so  that  its  entire  facade  with  columns 
is  visible;  but  the  interior  is  hidden  by  an  immense  white 
velum.  The  velum  is  of  silk,  only  ornamented  in  its  entire 
white  length  by  three  or  four  large,  black,  heraldic  roses, 
which  are  very  simple,  but  I  cannot  describe  their  exquisite 
distinction,  and  behind  this  first  and  half-lifted  hanging,  the 
light  bamboo  blinds  are  let  down  to  the  ground. 

We  walk  up  several  granite  steps,  and,  to  permit  my 


THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO.  179 

entrance,  my  guide  pushes  aside  a  corner  of  the  Veil :  the 
sanctuary  appears. 

Within  everything  is  in  black  lacquer  and  gold  lacquer, 
with  the  gold  predominating.  Above  the  complicated  cor- 
nice and  golden  frieze  there  springs  a  ceiling  in  compart- 
ments, in  worked  lacquer  of  black  and  gold.  Behind  the 
colonnade  at  the  back,  the  remote  part,  where,  doubtless,  the 
rods  are  kept,  is  hidden  by  long  curtains  of  black  and  gold 
brocade,  hanging  in  stiff"  folds  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor. 
Upon  white  mats  on  the  floor  large  golden  vases  are 
standing,  filled  with  great  bunches  of  golden  lotuses  as  tall 
as  trees.  And  finally  from  the  ceiling,  like  the  bodies  of 
large  dead  serpents  or  monstrous  boas,  hang  a  quantity  of 
astonishing  caterpillars  of  silk,  as  large  as  a  human  arm, 
blue,  yellow,  orange,  brownish-red,  and  black,  or  strangely 
variegated  like  the  throats  of  certain  birds  of  those  islands. 

Some  bonzes  are  singing  in  one  corner,  seated  in  a  circle 
around  a  prayer-drum,  large  enough  to  hold  them  all.  .  .   . 

We  go  out  by  the  back  door,  which  leads  into  the 
most  curious  garden  in  the  world:  it  is  a  square  filled  with 
shadows  shut  in  by  the  forest  cedars  and  high  walls,  which 
are  red  like  the  sanctuary ;  in  the  centre  rises  a  very  large 
bronze  obelisk  flanked  with  four  little  ones,  and  crowned 
with  a  pyramid  of  golden  leaves  and  golden  bells; — -you 
would  say  that  in  this  country  bronze  and  gold  cost  nothing  ; 
they  are  used  in  such  profusion,  everywhere,  just  as  we  use 
the  mean  materials  of  stone  and  plaster.  —  All  along  this 
blood-red  wall  which  forms  the  back  of  the  temple,  in  order 
to  animate  this  melancholy  garden,  at  about  the  height  of  a 
man  there  is  a  level  row  of  little  wooden  gods,  of  all  forms 


l8o  THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO. 

and  colours,  which  are  gazing  at  the  obelisk ;  some  blue, 
others  yellow,  others  green  ;  some  have  the  shape  of  a  man, 
others  of  an  elephant :  a  company  of  dwarfs,  extraordinarily 
comical,  but  which  express  no  merriment. 

In  order  to  reach  the  other  temples,  we  again  walk 
through  the  damp  and  shadowy  woods  along  the  avenues 
of  cedars,  which  ascend  and  descend  and  intersect  in  various 
ways,  and  really  constitute  the  streets  of  this  city  of  the 
dead. 

We  walk  on  pathways  of  fine  sand,  strewn  with  these 
little  brown  needles  which  drop  from  the  cedars.  Always 
in  terraces,  they  are  bordered  with  balustrades  and  pillars  of 
granite  covered  with  the  most  delicious  moss ;  you  would 
say  all  the  hand-rails  have  been  garnished  with  a  beautiful 
green  velvet,  and  at  each  side  of  the  sanded  pathway  invari- 
ably flow  little  fresh  and  limpid  brooks,  which  join  their 
crystal  notes  to  those  of  the  distant  torrents  and  cascades. 

At  a  height  of  one  hundred,  or  two  hundred  metres,  we 
arrive  at  the  entrance  of  something  which  seems  to  indicate 
magnificence :  above  us  on  the  mountain  in  the  medley  of 
branches,  walls  taper  upward,  while  roofs  of  lacquer  and 
bronze,  with  their  population  of  monsters,  are  perched 
everywhere,  shining  with  gold. 

Before  this  entrance  there  is  a  kind  of  open  square,  a 
narrow  glade,  where  a  little  sunlight  falls.  And  here  in  its 
luminous  rays  two  bonzes  in  ceremonial  costume  pass 
across  the  dark  background :  one,  in  a  long  robe  of  violet 
silk  with  a  surplice  of  orange  silk ;  the  other,  in  a  robe  of 
pearl-grey  with  a  sky-blue  surplice  ;  each  wears  a  high  and 
rigid  head-dress  of  black  lacquer,  which  is  seldom  worn  now. 


THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO.  l8l 

(These  were  the  only  human  beings  whom  we  met  on  the 
way,  during  our  pilgrimage.)  They  are  probably  going  to 
perform  some  religious  office,  and,  passing  before  the  sump- 
tuous entrance,  they  make  profound  bows. 

This  temple  before  which  we  are  now  standing  is  th?* 
of  the  deified  soul  of  the  Emperor  Yeyaz  (Sixteenth  Cen- 
tury), and,  perhaps,  the  most  marvellous  of  all  the  buildings 
of  Nikko. 

You  ascend  by  a  series  of  doors  and  enclosures,  which 
become  more  and  more  beautiful  as  you  get  higher  and 
nearer  the  sanctuary,  where  the  soul  of  this  dead  Emperor 
dwells.   .   .   . 

At  the  door  of  the  Palace  of  the  Splendour  of  the  Orient 
we  stop  to  take  off*  our  shoes  according  to  custom.  Gold 
is  everywhere,  resplendent  gold. 

An  indescribable  ornamentation  has  been  chosen  for  this 
threshold ;  on  the  enormous  posts  are  a  kind  of  wavy 
clouds,  or  ocean-billows,  in  the  centre  of  which  here  and 
there  appear  the  tentacles  of  medusae,  the  ends  of  paws,  the 
claws  of  crabs,  the  ends  of  long  caterpillars,  flat  and  scaly, 
—  all  kinds  of  horrible  fragments,  imitated  in  colossal  size 
with  a  striking  fidelity,  and  making  you  think  that  the  beasts 
to  which  they  belong  must  be  hidden  there  within  the  walls 
ready  to  enfold  you  and  tear  your  flesh.  This  splendour 
has  mysteriously  hostile  undercurrents;  we  feel  that  it  has 
many  a  surprise  and  menace.  Above  our  heads  the  lintels 
are,  however,  ornamented  with  large,  exquisite  flowers  in 
bronze,  or  gold  :  roses,  peonies,  wistaria,  and  spring  branches 
of  full-blown  cherry-blossoms  ;  but,  still  higher,  horrible 
faces   with   fixed   death's-head   grimaces    lean    toward    us; 


l82  THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO 

terrible  things  of  all  shapes  hang  by  their  golden  wings  from 
the  golden  beams  of  the  roof;  we  perceive  in  the  air  rows 
of  mouths  split  open  with  atrocious  laughter,  and  rows  of 
eyes  half-closed   in  an  unquiet  sleep. 

An  old  priest,  aroused  by  the  noise  of  our  footsteps  on 
the  gravel  in  the  silence  of  the  court,  appears  before  us  on 
the  bronze  threshold.  In  order  to  examine  the  permit 
which  I  present  to  him,  he  puts  a  pair  of  round  spectacles 
on  his  nose,  which  make  him  look  like  an  owl. 

My  papers  are  in  order.  A  bow,  and  he  steps  aside  to 
let  me  enter. 

It  is  gloomy  inside  this  palace,  with  that  mysterious 
semi-twilight  which  the  Spirits  delight  in.  The  impressions 
felt  on  entering  are  grandeur  and  repose. 

The  walls  are  of  gold  and  the  ceiling  is  of  gold,  supported 
on  columns  of  gold.  A  vague,  trembling  light,  illuminating 
as  if  from  beneath,  enters  through  the  very  much  grated  and 
very  low  windows ;  the  dark,  undetermined  depths  are  full 
of  the  gleamings  of  precious  things. 

Yellow  gold,  red  gold,  green  gold  ;  gold  that  is  vital,  or 
tarnished  ;  gold  that  is  brilliant,  or  lustreless  ;  here  and  there 
on  the  friezes  and  on  the  exquisite  capitals  of  the  columns, 
a  little  vermilion,  and  a  little  emerald  green;  very  little, 
nothing  but  a  thin  thread  of  colour,  just  enough  to  relieve 
the  wing  of  a  bird  and  the  petal  of  a  lotus,  a  peony,  or  a 
rose.  Despite  so  much  richness  nothing  is  overcharged  ; 
such  taste  has  been  displayed  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
thousands  of  diverse  forms  and  such  harmony  in  the  ex- 
tremely complicated  designs,  that  the  effect  of  the  whole  is 
simple  and  reposeful. 


THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO.  183 

Neither  human  figures  nor  idols  have  a  part  in  this  sanc- 
tuary of  Shintoism.  Nothing  stands  upon  the  altars  but 
large  vases  of  gold  filled  with  natural  flowers  in  sheaves,  or 
gigantic  flowers  of  gold. 

No  idols,  but  a  multitude  of  beasts,  flying  or  crawling, 
familiar  or  chimerical,  pursue  each  other  upon  the  walls, 
and  fly  away  from  the  friezes  and  ceiling  in  all  attitudes 
of  fury  and  struggle,  of  terror  and  flight.  Here,  a  flock 
of  swans  hurry  away  in  swift  flight  the  whole  length  of 
the  golden  cornice ;  in  other  places  are  butterflies  with 
tortoises ;  large  and  hideous  insects  among  the  flowers,  or 
many  death-combats  between  fantastic  beasts  of  the  sea, 
medusae  with  big  eyes,  and  imaginary  fishes.  On  the  ceil- 
ing innumerable  dragons  bristle  and  coil.  The  windows, 
cut  out  in  multiple  trefoils,  in  a  form  never  before  seen  and 
which  give  little  light,  seem  only  a  pretext  for  displaying  all 
kinds  of  marvellous  piercings  :  trellises  of  gold  entwined 
with  golden  leaves,  among  which  golden  birds  are  sporting ; 
all  of  this  seems  accumulated  at  pleasure  and  permits  the 
least  possible  light  to  enter  into  the  deep  golden  shadows 
of  the  temple.  The  only  really  simple  objects  are  the 
columns  of  a  fine  golden  lacquer  ending  with  capitals  of  a 
very  sober  design,  forming  a  slight  calix  of  the  lotus,  like 
those  of  certain  ancient  Egyptian  palaces. 

We  could  spend  days  in  admiring  separately  each  panel, 
each  pillar,  each  minute  detail ;  the  least  little  piece  of  the 
ceiling,  or  the  walls  would  be  a  treasure  for  a  museum.  And 
so  many  rare  and  extravagant  objects  have  succeeded  in 
making  the  whole  a  composition  of  large  quiet  lines ;  many 
living  forms,  many  distorted   bodies,   many   ruffled  wingss 

7— Vol.  3 


184  THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO. 

stiff  claws,  open  mouths,  and  squinting  eyes  have  succeeded 
in  producing  a  calm,  an  absolute  calm,  by  force  of  an  inex- 
plicable harmony,  twilight,  and  silence. 

I  believe,  moreover,  that  here  is  the  quintessence  of 
Japanese  Art,  of  which  the  specimens  brought  to  our  col- 
lections of  Europe  cannot  give  the  true  impression.  And 
we  are  struck  by  feeling  that  this  Art,  so  foreign  to  us,  pro- 
ceeds from  an  origin  so  different ;  nothing  here  is  derived, 
ever  so  remotely,  from  what  we  call  antiquities  —  Greek, 
Latin,  or  Arabian  —  which  always  influence,  even  if  we 
are  not  aware  of  it,  our  native  ideas  regarding  ornamental 
form.  Here  the  least  design,  the  smallest  line,  —  every- 
thing —  is  as  profoundly  strange  as  if  it  had  come  from  a 
neighbouring  planet  which  had  never  held  communication 
with  our  side  of  the  world. 

The  entire  back  of  the  temple,  where  it  is  almost  night, 
is  occupied  by  great  doors  of  black  lacquer  and  gold  lacquer, 
with  bolts  of  carved  gold,  shutting  in  a  very  sacred  place 
which  they  refuse  to  show  me.  They  tell  me,  moreover, 
that  there  is  nothing  in  these  closets ;  but  that  they  are  the 
places  where  the  deified  souls  of  the  heroes  love  to  dwell ; 
the  priests  only  open  them  on  certain  occasions  to  place  in 
them  poems  in  their  honour,  or  prayers  wisely  written  on 
rice-paper. 

The  two  lateral  wings  on  each  side  of  the  large  golden 
sanctuary  are  entirely  of  marqueterie,  in  prodigious  mosaics 
composed  of  the  most  precious  woods  left  in  their  natural 
colour.  The  representations  are  animals  and  plants :  on  the 
walls  are  light  leaves  in  relief,  bamboo,  grasses  of  extreme 
delicacy,  gold  convolvulus  falling  in  clusters  of  flowers,  birds 


THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO.  185 

of  resplendent  plumage,  peacocks  and  pheasants  with  spread 
tails.  There  is  no  painting  here,  no  gold-work  ;  the  whole 
effect  is  sombre,  the  general  tone  that  of  dead  wood  ;  but 
each  leaf  of  each  branch  is  composed  of  a  different  piece  ; 
and  also  each  feather  of  each  bird  is  shaded  in  such  a  way 
as  to  almost  produce  the  effect  of  changing  colours  on  the 
throats  and  wings. 

And  at  last,  at  last,  behind  all  this  magnificence,  the 
most  sacred  place  which  they  show  me  last,  the  most 
strange  of  all  strange  places,  is  the  little  mortuary  court 
which  surrounds  the  tomb.  It  is  hollowed  out  of  a  moun- 
tain between  whose  rocky  walls  water  is  dripping :  the 
lichens  and  moss  have  made  a  damp  carpet  here  and  the 
tall,  surrounding  cedars  throw  their  dark  shadows  over  it. 
There  is  an  enclosure  of  bronze,  shut  by  a  bronze  door 
which  is  inscribed  across  its  centre  with  an  inscription  in 
gold,  —  not  in  the  Japanese  language,  but  in  Sanscrit  to 
give  more  mystery ;  a  massive,  lugubrious,  inexorable  door, 
extraordinary  beyond  all  expression,  and  which  is  the  ideal 
door  for  a  sepulchre.  In  the  centre  of  this  enclosure  is  a 
kind  of  round  turret  also  in  bronze  having  the  form  of  a 
pagoda-bell,  of  a  kneeling  beast,  of  I  don't  know  what 
unknown  and  disturbing  thing,  and  surmounted  by  a  great 
astonishing  heraldic  flower :  here,  under  this  singular 
object,  rests  the  body  of  the  little  yellow  bonhomme,  once 
the  Emperor  Yeyaz,  for  whom  all  this  pomp  has  been 
displayed.  .  .   . 

A  little  breeze  agitates'  the  branches  of  the  cedars  this 
morning  and  there  falls  a  shower  of  these  little  dry,  brown 
needles,  a  little  brown  rain  on  the  greyish  lichens,  on  the 


l86  THE    TEMPLES    OF    NIKKO. 

green  velvet  moss,  and  upon  the  sinister  bronze  objects. 
The  voice  of  the  cascades  is  heard  in  the  distance  like  per- 
petual sacred  music.  An  impression  of  nothingness  and 
supreme  peace  reigns  in  this  final  court,  to  which  so  much 
splendour  leads. 

In  another  quarter  of  the  forest  the  temple  of  the  deified 
soul  of  Yemidzou  is  of  an  almost  equal  magnificence.  It 
is  approached  by  a  similar  series  of  steps,  little  carved 
and  gilded  light-towers,  doors  of  bronze  and  enclosures  of 
lacquer ;  but  the  plan  of  the  whole  is  a  little  less  regular, 
because  the  mountain  is  more  broken.   .   .  . 

A  solemn  hour  on  the  Holy  Mountain  is  at  night-fall, 
when  they  close  the  temples.  It  is  even  more  lugubrious 
at  this  autumnal  season,  when  the  twilight  brings  sad 
thoughts.  With  heavy,  rumbling  sounds  which  linger  long 
in  the  sonorous  forest,  the  great  panels  of  lacquer  and 
bronze  are  rolled  on  their  grooves  to  shut  in  the  mag- 
nificent buildings  which  have  been  open  all  day,  although 
visited  by  nobody.  A  cold  and  damp  shiver  passes  through 
the  black  forest.  For  fear  of  fire,  which  might  consume 
these  marvels,  not  a  single  light  is  allowed  in  this  village 
of  Spirits,  where  certainly  darkness  falls  sooner  and  remains 
longer  than  anywhere  else ;  no  lamp  has  ever  shone  upon 
these  treasures,  which  have  thus  slept  in  darkness  in  the 
very  heart  of  Japan  for  many  centuries  ;  and  the  cascades 
increase  their  music  while  the  silence  of  night  enshrouds 
the  forest  so  rich  in  enchantment. 

Japoneries  <T automne  (15th  ed.,  Paris,  1889). 


THE   PALACE   OF   HOLYROOD. 

DAVID   MASSON. 

JUST  after  the  middle  of  August,  1 561,  as  we  learn  from 
contemporary  records,  there  was  a  haar  of  unusual 
intensity  and  continuance  over  Edinburgh  and  all  the 
vicinity.  It  began  on  Sunday  the  17th,  and  it  lasted  with 
slight  intermissions,  till  Thursday  the  21st.  "  Besides  the 
surfett  weat  and  corruptioun  of  the  air,"  writes  Knox,  then 
living  in  Edinburgh,  "  the  myst  was  so  thick  and  dark  that 
skairse  mycht  any  man  espy  ane  other  the  length  of  two 
pair  of  butts."  It  was  the  more  unfortunate  because  it  was 
precisely  in  those  days  of  miserable  fog  and  drizzle  that 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  on  her  return  to  Scotland  after  her 
thirteen  years  of  residence  and  education  in  France,  had  to 
form  her  first  real  acquaintance  with  her  native  shores  and 
the  capital  of  her  realm. 

She  had  left  Calais  for  the  homeward  voyage  on  Thurs- 
day the  14th  of  August,  with  a  retinue  of  about  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  persons,  French  and  Scottish,  embarked 
in  two  French  state  galleys,  attended  by  several  transports. 
They  were  a  goodly  company,  with  rich  and  splendid  bag- 
gage. The  Queen's  two  most  important  uncles,  indeed, 
—  the  great  Francis  de  Lorraine,  Duke  of  Guise,  and  his 
brother,  Charles  de  Lorraine,  the  Cardinal, —  were  not  on 
board.     They,  with  the  Duchess  of  Guise  and  other  senior 


188  THE    PALACE    OF     HOLYROOD. 

lords  and  ladies  of  the  French  Court,  had  bidden  Mary  fare- 
well at  Calais,  after  having  accompanied  her  thither  from 
Paris,  and  after  the  Cardinal  had  in  vain  tried  to  persuade 
her  not  to  take  her  costly  collection  of  pearls  and  other 
jewels  with  her,  but  to  leave  them  in  his  keeping  till   it 
should  be  seen  how  she  might  fare  among  her  Scottish  sub- 
jects.     But  on  board  the  Queen's  own  galley  were  three 
others  of  her  Guise  or  Lorraine  uncles,  —  the  Due  d'Au- 
male,  the  Grand  Prior,  and  the  Marquis  d'Elbeuf,  —  with 
M.  Damville,  son  of  the  Constable  of  France,  and  a  num- 
ber of  French  gentlemen  of  lower  rank,  among  whom  one 
notes  especially  young  Pierre  de  Bourdeilles,  better  known 
afterwards  in  literary  history  as  Sieur  de  Brantome,  and  a 
sprightly  and  poetic  youth  from  Dauphine,  named  Chaste- 
lard,  one  of  the  attendants  of  M.  Damville.     With  these 
were  mixed  the  Scottish  contingent  of  the  Queen's  train,  her 
four  famous  "  Marys  "  included,  —  Mary  Fleming,  Mary  Liv- 
ingstone, Mary  Seton,and  Mary  Beaton.    They  had  been  her 
playfellows  and  little  maids  of  honour  long  ago  in  her  Scottish 
childhood ;  they  had  accompanied  her  when  she  went  abroad, 
and  had  lived  with  her  ever  since  in  France ;  and  they  were 
now  returning  with  her,  Scoto-Frenchwomen  like  herself, 
and  all  of  about  her  own  age,  to  share  her  new  fortunes. 

It  is  to  Brantome  that  we  owe  what  account  we  have  of 
the  voyage  from  Calais.  He  tells  us  how  the  Queen  could 
hardly  tear  herself  away  from  her  beloved  France,  but  kept 
gazing  at  the  French  coast  hour  after  hour  so  long  as  it 
was  in  sight,  shedding  tears  with  every  look,  and  exclaiming 
again  and  again,  "  Adieu,  ma  chere  France  !  Je  ne  vous 
verray  jamais  plus  !  "  - 


THE  PALACE  OF  HOLYROOD.        189 

It  was   in    the  afternoon  of  Wednesday,  the    20th    of 
August,  that  there  was  a  procession  on  horseback  of  the 
Queen,  her  French  retinue,  and  the  gathered  Scottish  lords 
and  councillors,  through  the  two  miles  of  road  which  led 
from  Leith   to    Holyrood.      On   the  way   the   Queen  was 
met  by  a  deputation  of  the  Edinburgh  craftsmen  and  their 
apprentices,  craving  her  royal  pardon  for  the  ringleaders  in 
a  recent  riot,  in  which  the  Tolbooth  had  been  broken  open 
and  the  Magistrates  insulted  and  defied.     This  act  of  grace 
accorded  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  Queen  was  that  evening 
in  her  hall  of  Holyrood,  the  most  popular  of  sovereigns  for 
the  moment,  her  uncles  and  other  chiefs  of  her  escort  with 
her,  and  the  rest  dispersed  throughout  the  apartments,  while 
outside,  in  spite  of  the  fog,  there  were  bonfires  of  joy  in  the 
streets  and  up  the  slopes  of  Arthur's  Seat,  and  a  crowd  of 
cheering  loiterers  moved  about  in  the  space  between  the 
palace-gate   and    the   foot   of   the    Canongate.     Imparting 
some   regulation  to  the   proceedings   of  this  crowd,  for  a 
while  at  least,  was  a  special  company  of  the  most  "  honest " 
of  the  townsmen,  "  with  instruments  of  musick  and  with 
musicians,"   admitted   within   the   gate,  and   tendering   the 
Queen  their  salutations,  instrumental  and  vocal,  under  her 
chamber  window.     "  The  melody,  as  she  alledged,  lyked 
her  weill,  and  she  willed  the  same  to  be  continewed  some 
nightis   after."     This  is   Knox's  account ;    but    Brantome 
tells  a  different  story.     After  noting  the  wretchedness  of 
the  hackneys  provided   for  the   procession    from   Leith  to 
Holyrood,  and  the  poorness  of  their  harnessings  and  trap- 
pings, the  sight  of  which,  he  says,  made  the  Queen  weep, 
he  goes  on  to   mention  the    evening  serenade  under  the 


190  THE    PALACE    OF    HOLYROOD. 

windows  of  Holyrood,  as  the  very  completion  of  the  day's 
disagreeables.  The  Abbey  itself,  he  admits,  was  a  fine 
enough  building ;  but,  just  as  the  Queen  had  supped  and 
wanted  to  go  to  sleep,  "  there  came  under  her  window  five 
or  six  hundred  rascals  of  the  town  to  serenade  her  with  vile 
fiddles  and  rebecks,  such  as  they  do  not  lack  in  that  country, 
setting  themselves  to  sing  psalms,  and  singing  so  ill  and  in 
such  bad  accord  that  there  could  be  nothing  worse.  Ah  ! 
what  music,  and  what  a  lullaby  for  the  night !  "  Whether 
Knox's  account  of  the  Queen's  impressions  of  the  serenade 
or  Brantome's  is  to  be  accepted,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
the  matter  and  intention  of  the  performance  were  religious. 
Our  authentic  picture,  therefore,  of  Queen  Mary's  first 
night  in  Holyrood  after  her  return  from  France  is  that  of 
the  Palace  lit  up  from  within,  the  dreary  fog  still  persistent 
outside,  the  bonfires  on  Arthur's  Seat  and  other  vantage- 
grounds  flickering  through  the  fog,  and  the  portion  of  the 
wet  crowd  nearest  the  Palace  singing  Protestant  psalms  for 
the  Queen's  delectation  to  an  accompaniment  of  violins. 

Next  day,  Thursday  the  2 1st,  this  memorable  Edinburgh 
haar  of  August  156 1  came  to  an  end.  Arthur's  Seat  and  the 
other  heights  and  ranges  of  the  park  round  Holyrood  wore, 
we  may  suppose,  their  freshest  verdure ;  and  Edinburgh, 
dripping  no  longer,  shone  forth,  we  may  hope,  in  her  sun- 
niest beauty.  The  Queen  could  then  become  more  par- 
ticularly acquainted  with  the  Palace  in  which  she  had  come 
to  reside,  and  with  the  nearer  aspects  of  the  town  to  which 
the  Palace  was  attached,  and  into  which  she  had  yet  to 
make  her  formal  entry. 

Then,  as  now,  the  buildings  that  went  by  the  general 


THE  PALACE  OF  HOLYROOD.       I9I 

name  of  Holyrood  were  distinguishable  into  two  portions. 
There  was  the  Abbey,  now  represented  only  by  the  beauti- 
ful and  spacious  fragment  of  ruin,  called  the  Royal  Chapel, 
but  then,  despite  the  spoliations  to  which  it  had  been  sub- 
jected by  recent  English  invasions,  still  tolerably  preserved 
in  its  integrity  as  the  famous  edifice,  in  Early  Norman  style, 
which  had  been  founded  in  the  Twelfth  Century  by  David  I., 
and  had  been  enlarged  in  the  Fifteenth  by  additions  in  the 
later  and  more  florid  Gothic.  Close  by  this  was  Holyrood 
House,  or  the  Palace  proper,  built  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century,  and  chiefly  by  James  IV.,  to  form  a 
distinct  royal  dwelling,  and  so  supersede  that  occasional 
accommodation  in  the  Abbey  itself  which  had  sufficed  for 
Scottish  sovereigns  before  Edinburgh  was  their  habitual  or 
capital  residence.  One  block  of  this  original  Holyrood 
House  still  remains  in  the  two-turreted  projection  of  the 
present  Holyrood  which  adjoins  the  ruined  relic  of  the 
Abbey,  and  which  contains  the  rooms  now  specially  shown 
as  "  Queen  Mary's  Apartments."  But  the  present  Holy- 
rood,  as  a  whole,  is  a  construction  of  the  reign  of  Charles  II., 
and  gives  little  idea  of  the  Palace  in  which  Mary  took  up 
her  abode  in  1 561.  The  two-turreted  projection  on  the 
left  was  not  balanced  then,  as  now,  by  a  similar  two-tur- 
reted projection  on  the  right,  with  a  facade  of  less  height 
between,  but  was  flanked  on  the  right  by  a  continued 
chateau-like  frontage,  of  about  the  same  height  as  the 
turreted  projection,  and  at  a  uniform  depth  of  recess  from 
it,  but  independently  garnished  with  towers  and  pinnacles. 
The  main  entrance  into  the  Palace  from  the  great  outer 
courtyard  was  through  this  ch£feau-like  flank,  just  about  the 


I92  THE    PALACE    OF    HOLYROOD. 

spot  where  there  is  the  entrance  through  the  present  middle 
facade ;    and  this   entrance  led,  like  the   present,  into   an 
inner  court  or  quadrangle,  built  round  on  all  the  four  sides. 
That  quadrangle  of  chateau,   touching  the  Abbey  to  the 
back  from  its  north-eastern  corner,  and  with  the  two-tur- 
reted  projection  to  its  front  from  its  north-western  corner, 
constituted,  indeed,  the  main  bulk  of  the  Palace.     There 
were,  however,  extensive  appurtenances  of  other  buildings 
at  the  back  or  at  the  side  farthest  from  the  Abbey,  forming 
minor  inner  courts,  while  part  of  that  side  of  the  great 
outer  courtyard  which  faced  the  entrance  was  occupied  by 
offices  belonging  to  the  Palace,  and  separating  the  court- 
yard from   the   adjacent   purlieus   of  the   town.     For    the 
grounds  of  both  Palace  and  Abbey  were  encompassed  by  a 
wall,  having  gates  at  various  points  of  its  circuit,  the  prin- 
cipal and  most  strongly  guarded  of  which  was  the  Gothic 
porch  admitting  from  the  foot  of  the  Canongate  into  the 
front    courtyard.     The    grounds   so  enclosed  were    ample 
enough  to  contain  gardens  and  spaces  of  plantation,  besides 
the  buildings  and  their  courts.      Altogether,  what  with  the 
buildings  themselves,   what  with  the   courts   and  gardens, 
and  what  with  the  natural  grandeur  of  the  site,  —  a  level 
of  deep  and  wooded  park,  between  the  Calton  heights  and 
crags  on  the  one  hand  and  the  towering  shoulders  of  Arthur 
Seat  and  precipitous  escarpment  of  Salisbury  Crags  on  the 
other,  —  Holyrood  in  156 1  must  have  seemed,  even  to  an 
eye  the   most   satiated   with   palatial    splendours   abroad,  a 
sufficiently  impressive  dwelling-place  to  be  the  metropolitan 
home  of  Scottish  royalty. 

Edinburgh  Sketches  and  Memories  (London  and  Edinburgh,  1892). 


SAINT-GUDULE. 

VICTOR   HUGO. 

THE  windows  of  Saint-Gudule  are  of  a  kind  almost 
unknown  in  France,  real  paintings,  real  pictures 
on  glass  of  a  marvellous  style,  with  figures  like  Titian  and 
architecture  like  Paul  Veronese. 

The  pulpit  of  this  church  is  carved  in  wood  by  Henry 
Verbruggen  and  bears  the  date  of  1699.  The  whole  of 
creation,  the  whole  of  philosophy,  the  whole  of  poetry 
are  expressed  here  by  an  enormous  tree  which  supports 
the  pulpit  in  its  boughs  and  shelters  a  world  of  birds  and 
animals  among  its  leaves,  while  at  its  base  Adam  and  Eve 
are  pursued  by  a  sorrowful  angel,  followed  by  Death  who 
seems  triumphant,  and  separated  by  the  tail  of  the  serpent. 
At  its  summit,  the  cross  —  Truth  —  and  the  infant  Jesus, 
whose  foot  rests  upon  the  head  of  the  bruised  serpent. 
This  poem  is  sculptured  and  carved  out  of  oak  alone,  in 
the  strongest,  the  most  tender,  and  the  most  spirituelle 
manner.  The  effect  is  prodigiously  rococo  and  prodigiously 
beautiful.  No  matter  what  the  fanatics  of  the  severe 
school  would  say,  it  is  true.  This  pulpit  is  one  of  those 
rare  instances  in  art  where  the  beautiful  and  the  rococo 
meet.  Watteau  and  Coypel  have  also  occasionally  dis- 
covered such  points  of  intersection.  .   .   . 

It    was    three    o'clock    when    I    entered    Saint-Gudule. 
They    were   celebrating    the    Office    of    the    Virgin.      A 


194  SAINT-GUDULE. 

Madonna,  covered  with  jewels  and  clothed  in  a  robe  of 
English  lace,  glittered  on  a  dais  of  gold  in  the  centre  of 
the  nave  through  a  luminous  cloud  of  incense  which  was 
dispersed  around  her.  Many  people  were  praying  in  the 
shadow  motionless,  and  a  strong  ray  of  sunlight  from  above 
dispelled  the  gloom  and  shone  full  upon  the  large  statues 
of  proud  mien  arranged  against  the  columns.  The  wor- 
shippers seemed  of  stone,  the  statues  seemed  alive. 

And  then  a  beautiful  chant  of  mingled  deep  and  ringing 
voices  fell  mysteriously  with  the  tones  of  the  organ  from  the 
highest  rails  hidden  by  the  mists  of  incense.  I,  during  this 
time,  had  my  eye  fixed  dreamily  upon  Verbruggen's  pulpit, 
teeming  with  life,  —  that  magic  pulpit  which  is  always  sug- 
gestive. —  Frame  this  with  windows,  ogives,  and  Renaissance 
tombs  of  white  marble  and  black,  and  you  will  understand 
why  a  sublime  sensation  was  produced  by  this  scene.  .  .  . 

I  climbed  the  towers  of  Saint-Gudule.  It  was  beautiful. 
The  entire  city  lay  beneath  me,  the  toothed  and  voluted 
roofs  of  Brussels  half-hidden  by  the  smoke,  the  sky  (a 
stormy  sky),  full  of  clouds,  golden  and  curled  above,  solid 
as  marble  below ;  in  the  distance  a  large  cloud  from  which 
rain  was  falling  like  fine  sand  from  a  bag  which  has  burst  j 
the  sun  shone  above  everything;  the  magnificent  open- 
work, lantern-like  belfry  stood  out  sombre  against  the 
white  mists ;  then  the  confused  noise  of  the  town  reached 
me,  then  the  verdure  of  the  lovely  hills  on  the  horizon  : 
it  was  truly  beautiful.  I  admired  everything  like  a  provin- 
cial from  Paris,  which  I  am,  —  everything,  even  the  mason 
who  was  hammering  on  a  stone  and  whistling  near  me. 

En  Voyage:  France  et  Belgique  (Paris,  1892). 


THE   ESCURIAL. 

EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS. 

BEFORE  my  departure  for  Andalusia,  I  went  to  see 
the  famous  Convent  of  the  Escurial,  the  leviathan 
of  architecture,  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world,  the  largest 
mass  of  granite  upon  the  earth,  and,  if  you  desire  other 
imposing  epithets,  then  you  must  imagine  them,  for  you 
will  not  find  one  that  has  not  been  used  to  describe  it.  I 
left  Madrid  in  the  early  morning.  The  village  of  the 
Escurial,  from  which  the  Convent  received  its  name,  is 
eight  leagues  from  the  city,  not  far  from  the  Guadarrama ; 
you  pass  through  an  arid  and  uninhabited  country  whose 
horizon  is  bounded  by  snow-covered  mountains.  A  light, 
fine,  and  cold  rain  was  falling  when  I  reached  the  station 
of  the  Escurial.  From  it  to  the  village  there  is  a  rise  of 
half  a  mile.  I  clambered  into  an  omnibus,  and  at  the  end 
of  a  few  minutes,  I  was  deposited  in  a  solitary  street 
bordered  on  the  left  by  the  Convent  and  on  the  right  by 
the  houses  of  the  village,  and  shut  in  by  the  mountains. 
At  the  first  glance  you  understand  nothing ;  you  expect 
to  see  a  building  and  you  find  a  city  ;  you  do  not  know 
if  you  are  already  in  the  Convent,  or  if  you  are  outside ; 
you  are  hemmed  in  by  walls.  You  advance,  and  find 
yourself  in  a  square ;  you  look  about  you  and  see  streets  j 


ig6  THE    ESCURIAL. 

you  have  not  yet  entered,  and  already  the  Convent  sur- 
rounds you  :  you  are  at  your  wit's  end,  and  no  longer 
know  which  way  to  turn.  The  first  feeling  is  one  of 
depression :  the  entire  edifice  is  of  mud-coloured  stone, 
and  all  the  layers  are  marked  by  a  white  stripe  j  the  roofs 
are  covered  with  lead.  You  might  call  it  a  building  made 
of  earth.  The  very  high  walls  are  naked  and  pierced  by 
a  great  number  of  windows  which  resemble  barbicans. 
You  might  call  it  a  prison  rather  than  a  convent.  You 
find  this  gloomy  colour  everywhere  :  there  is  not  a  living 
soul  here,  and  the  silence  is  that  of  a  deserted  fortress ;  and 
beyond  the  black  roofs,  the  black  mountain,  which  seems 
to  be  suspended  over  the  building,  gives  it  mysterious 
solitude.  It  seems  as  if  the  founder  must  have  chosen  the 
spot,  the  plan,  and  the  colours,  everything,  in  fact,  with 
the  intention  of  producing  a  sad  and  solemn  spectacle. 
You  lose  your  gaiety  before  entering ;  you  can  smile  no 
longer,  you  are  thinking.  You  pause  at  the  door  of  the 
Escurial  with  a  kind  of  quaking,  as  if  at  the  entrance  of  a 
dead  city ;  it  seems  to  you  that  if  the  terrible  Inquisition 
is  reigning  in  any  corner  of  the  world,  it  must  be  between 
these  walls ;  for  it  is  here  that  you  can  see  its  last  traces 
and  hear  its  last  echo. 

Everybody  knows  that  the  Basilica  and  the  Convent  of 
the  Escurial  were  founded  by  Philip  II.  after  the  battle  of 
San  Quintino  to  fulfil  his  vow  made  during  the  war  to  Saint 
Laurence  when  he  was  forced  to  cannonade  a  church  con- 
secrated to  this  saint.  Don  Juan  Batista  of  Toledo  com- 
menced the  building  and  Herrera  finished  it,  and  the  work 
upon  it  lasted  for  twenty-one  years.     Philip  II.  wished  the 


THE    ESCURIAL.  I97 

building  to  have  the  form  of  a  gridiron  in  memory  of  Saint 
Laurence's  martyrdom ;  and,  in    reality,  this  is  its  form. 
The  plan  is  a  rectangular  parallelogram.     Four  large  square 
towers   with  pointed  roofs    rise  at  the  four    corners,  and 
represent  the  four  feet  of  a  gridiron ;  the  church  and  the 
royal  palace,  which  extend  on  one  side,  represent  the  handle ; 
and  the  interior  buildings,  which  are  placed  across  the  two 
long    sides,    represent    the    parallel    bars.      Other    smaller 
buildings  rise  outside  of  the  parallelogram,  not  far  from  the 
Convent,  along  one  of  the  long  sides  and  one  of  the  courts, 
forming  two  large  squares  ;  the  other  two  sides  are  occupied 
by  gardens.     Facades,  doors,  and  entrance-halls,  are  all  in 
harmony  with  the  grandeur  and  character  of  the  edifice :  it 
is  useless  to  multiply  descriptions.       The  royal  Palace  is 
magnificent,  and  in  order  to  keep  a  clear  impression  of  each 
individual  building,  it  is  better  to  see  it  before  you  enter  the 
Convent  and  Church.     This  palace  is  in  the  north-east  corner 
of  the  building.     Several  halls  are  filled  with  pictures,  others 
are    hung    from    the    ceiling  to  the  floor   with    tapestries, 
representing  bull-fights,  dances,  games,  fetes,  and  Spanish 
costumes,  after  Goya  ;  others  are  decorated  and  furnished  in 
princely  style;  the  floor,  the  doors,  and  the  windows  are 
covered  with  marvellous  mosaics  and  dazzling  gold-work. 
But  among  all  the  rooms,  that  of  Philip  II.  is  especially 
remarkable.     It  is  a  dark  and  bare  cell,  whose  alcove  com- 
municates with  the  royal  oratory  of  the  church  in  such  a 
way  that,  when  the  doors  were  open,  from  his  bed  he  could 
see  the  priest  celebrating  Mass.     Philip  II.  slept  in  this  room, 
had  his  last  illness  there,  and  died  there.     You  can  still  see 
some  of  the  chairs  he  used,  two  little  benches  on  which 


jgg  THE    ESCURIAL. 

he  rested  his  gouty  leg,  and  a  writing-desk.     The  walls  are 
white,  the  ceiling   is   unornamented,   and    the    floor  is  of 

stone. 

When  vou  have  seen  the  royal  Palace,  you  go  out  of  the 
building,  cross  the  square,  and  re-enter  the  great  door.  A 
guide  joins  you  and  you  pass  through  the  large  entrance  to 
find  yourself  in  the  Kings'  court-yard.  Here  you  gain  an 
idea  of  the  enormous  structure  of  the  building.  This  court 
is  entirely  shut  in  by  walls ;  opposite  the  door  is  the  facade 
of  the  Church.  Above  a  wide  stairway  stand  six  enormous 
Doric  columns ;  each  of  these  supports  a  large  pedestal,  and 
each  pedestal  upholds  a  statue.  These  six  colossal  statues 
are  by  Batista  Monegro,  representing  Jehoshaphat,  Ezekiel, 
David,  Solomon,  Joshua,  and  Manasseh.  The  court-yard 
is  paved  and  bunches  of  damp  grass  grow  here  and  there; 
the  walls  look  like  rocks  cut  in  points;  everything  is  rigid, 
massive,  and  heavy,  and  presents  the  indescribable  aspect 
of  a  fantastic  edifice  hewn  by  Titans  from  a  mountain  and 
capable  of  defying  earthquakes  and  lightnings.  At  this 
point  you  really  begin  to  understand  the  Escurial.   .   .   . 

After  seeing  the  Church  and  the  Sacristy,  you  visit  the 
Picture-Gallery,  which  contains  a  large  number  of  paintings 
by  artists  of  all  countries,  not  the  best  examples,  however, 
for  these  have  been  taken  to  the  Madrid  gallery,  but  of 
sufficient  value  to  merit  a  thoughtful  visit  of  half  a  day. 
From  the  Picture-Gallery  you  go  to  the  Library  by  means 
of  the  large  stairway,  over  which  is  rounded  an  enormous 
vaulted  ceiling,  painted  all  over  with  frescoes  by  Luca 
Giordano.  The  Library  is  an  immense  hall  adorned  with 
large    allegorical    paintings,  and  contains    more  than  fifty 


THE    ESCURIAL.  199 

thousand  rare  volumes,  four  thousand  of  which  were  given 
by  Philip  II.,  and  beyond  this  is  another  hall,  which  con- 
tains a  very  valuable  collection  of  manuscripts.  From  the 
Library  you  go  to  the  Convent.  Here  human  imagina- 
tion is  completely  lost.  If  my  reader  knows  Espronceda's 
Estudiante  de  Salamanca,  he  will  remember  that  the  persistent 
young  man,  when  following  the  mysterious  lady  whom  he 
met  at  night  at  the  foot  of  a  tabernacle,  runs  from  street  to 
street,  from  square  to  square,  and  from  alley  to  alley,  turning 
and  returning,  until  he  arrives  at  a  spot  where  he  can  no 
longer  see  the  houses  of  Salamanca  and  where  he  discovers 
that  he  is  in  an  unknown  city ;  and  in  proportion  as  he 
advances  the  town  seems  to  grow  larger,  the  streets  longer 
and  the  intertwining  alleys  more  tortuous  ;  but  he  goes  on 
and  on  without  stopping,  not  knowing  if  he  is  awake  or 
dreaming,  if  he  is  intoxicated  or  mad  ;  terror  begins  to  enter 
his  brave  heart  and  the  most  peculiar  phantoms  crowd  into 
his  distracted  mind:  this  is  what  happens  to  the  stranger 
in  the  Convent  of  the  Escurial.  You  pass  through  a  long 
subterranean  corridor,  so  narrow  that  you  can  touch  the 
wall  with  your  elbows,  so  low  that  your  head  almost  hits 
the  ceiling,  and  as  damp  as  a  grotto  under  the  sea ;  on 
reaching  its  end,  you  turn,  and  you  are  in  another  corridor. 
You  go  on,  pass  through  doors,  and  look  around  :  other 
corridors  extend  as  far  as  your  eye  can  see.  At  the  end  of 
some  of  them  you  notice  a  feeble  light,  at  the  end  of  others 
an  open  door  which  reveals  a  suite  of  rooms.  Every  now 
and  then  you  hear  a  footstep  :  you  stop  ;  all  is  silent ;  then 
you  hear  it  again  ;  you  do  not  know  if  it  is  above  your  head, 
or  to  the  right,  or  the  left,  or  before  you,  or  behind  you. 


200  THE   ESCURIAL. 

You  are  about  to  enter  a  door ;  you  recoil  in  terror :  at 
the  end  of  a  long  corridor  you  see  a  man,  motionless  as  a 
spectre,  who  is  staring  at  you.  You  continue  your  journey 
and  arrive  in  a  strange  court,  surrounded  by  high  walls  and 
overgrown  with  grass,  full  of  echoes,  and  illuminated  by  a 
wan  light  which  seems  to  come  from  some  strange  sun  ;  it 
reminds  you  of  the  haunts  of  witches  described  to  you  in 
your  childhood.  You  go  out  of  the  court,  walk  up  a  stair- 
way, arrive  in  a  gallery,  and  look  down  :  there  beneath  you 
is  another,  and  deserted,  court.  You  walk  down  another 
corridor,  you  descend  another  stairway,  and  you  find  your- 
self in  a  third  court ;  then  again  more  corridors,  stairways, 
suites  of  empty  rooms,  and  narrow  courts,  and  everywhere 
granite,  a  wan  light,  and  the  stillness  of  death.  For  a  short 
time  you  think  you  could  retrace  your  steps  ;  then  your 
memory  forsakes  you,  and  you  recall  nothing :  it  seems  as 
if  you  had  walked  ten  leagues,  that  you  have  been  in  this 
labyrinth  for  a  month,  and  that  you  will  never  get  out  of 
it.  You  come  to  a  court,  and  exclaim :  "  I  have  seen  this 
before  !  "  No  you  are  mistaken  :  it  is  another  one.  You 
think  you  are  on  one  side  of  the  building  and  you  are  on 
the  opposite  one.  You  ask  your  guide  for  the  cloister,  and 
he  replies  :  "It  is  here,"  and  you  continue  walking  for  half 
an  hour.  You  fancy  you  are  dreaming :  you  have  glimpses 
of  long  walls,  frescoed,  and  adorned  with  pictures,  the 
crucifix,  and  with  inscriptions  ;  you  see  and  you  forget ; 
you  ask  yourself  "  Where  am  I  ?  "  You  see  a  light  as  if 
from  another  world  :  you  have  never  conceived  of  such  a 
peculiar  light.  Is  it  the  reflection  of  the  granite  ?  Is  it 
moonlight  ?     No,  it  is  daylight  j  but  a  daylight  sadder  than 


THE    ESCURIAL.  201 

darkness  ;  it  is  a  false,  sinister,  fantastic  daylight.  Let  us 
go  on !  From  corridor  to  corridor,  from  court  to  court, 
you  look  before  you  with  mistrust ;  you  expect  to  see  sud- 
denly at  the  turn  of  a  corner  a  row  of  skeleton  monks  with 
hoods  drawn  over  their  eyes  and  their  arms  folded  ;  you 
think  of  Philip  II.  j  you  fancy  you  hear  his  step  growing 
ever  fainter  down  the  distant  passages  ;  you  remember  all 
you  have  read  of  him,  of  his  terrors,  of  the  Inquisition  ;  and 
everything  becomes  suddenly  plain ;  you  understand  it  all 
for  the  first  time:  the  Escurial  is  Philip  II.,  you  see  him 
at  every  step,  and  you  hear  him  breathe ;  for  he  is  here, 
living  and  fearful,  and  the  image  of  his  terrible  God  is  with 
him.  Then  you  want  to  revolt,  to  raise  your  thought  to 
the  God  of  your  heart  and  hope,  and  to  conquer  the  mys- 
terious terror  which  this  place  inspires ;  but  you  cannot  j 
the  Escurial  envelops  you,  possesses  you,  crushes  you;  the 
cold  of  its  stones  penetrates  into  your  very  bones,  the 
sadness  of  its  sepulchral  labyrinths  takes  possession  of  your 
soul.  If  you  were  with  a  friend,  you  would  say  :  "  Let  us 
go ! " ;  if  you  were  with  your  loved  one,  you  would  trem- 
blingly clasp  her  to  your  heart ;  if  you  were  alone,  you 
would  take  flight.  Finally  you  ascend  the  stairway,  and, 
entering  a  room,  go  to  the  window  to  salute  rapturously  the 
mountains,  the  sunshine,  liberty,  and  the  great  and  generous 
God  who  loves  and  pardons. 

How  one  breathes  again  at  this  window  ! 

From  it  you  see  the  gardens,  which  occupy  a  restricted 
space  and  which  are  very  simple,  but  elegant  and  beautiful, 
and  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  building.  You  see  in 
them  twelve  charming  fountains,  each  surrounded  by  four 


202  THE    ESCURIAL. 

squares  of  box-wood,  representing  the  royal  escutcheons, 
designed  with  such  skill  and  trimmed  with  such  precision 
that  in  looking  at  them  from  the  windows  they  seem  to 
be  made  of  plush  and  velvet,  and  they  stand  out  from 
the  white  sand  of  the  walks  in  a  very  striking  manner. 
There  are  no  trees,  nor  flowers,  nor  pavilions  here ;  in 
all  the  gardens  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  fountains  and 
squares  of  box-wood  and  these  two  colours  —  white  and 
green  —  and  such  is  the  beauty  of  this  noble  simplicity 
that  the  eye  is  enchanted  with  it,  and  when  it  has  passed 
out  of  sight,  the  thought  returns  and  rests  there  with 
pleasure  mingled  with   a  gentle  melancholy.   .  .  . 

An  illustrious  traveller  has  said  that  after  having  spent 
a  day  in  the  Convent  of  the  Escurial,  one  should  feel 
happy  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  thinking  that  he 
might  be  still  between  those  walls,  but  that  he  has  escaped. 
That  is  very  nearly  true.  Even  now,  after  so  long  a 
time,  on  rainy  days  when  I  am  sad  I  think  about  the 
Escurial,  then  I  look  around  the  walls  of  my  room  and  I 
become  gay  ;  during  nights  of  insomnia,  I  see  the  courts 
of  the  Escurial ;  when  I  am  ill  and  drop  into  a  feverish 
and  heavy  sleep,  I  dream  that  all  night  I  am  wandering  in 
these  corridors,  alone  and  followed  by  the  phantom  of  a 
monk,  screaming  and  knocking  at  all  the  doors  without 
finding  a  way  out,  until  I  decide  to  go  to  the  Pantheon, 
where  the  door  bangs  behind  me  and  shuts  me  in  among 
the  tombs. 

With  what  delight  I  saw  the  myriad  lights  of  the 
Puerto  del  Sol,  the  crowded  cafes  and  the  great  and  noisy 
street  of   the   Alcala !     When   I   went    into  the   house  I 


THE   ESCURIAL.  203 

made  such  a  noise,  that  the  servant,  who  was  a  good  and 
simple  Gallician,  ran  excitedly  to  her  mistress  and  said  : 
"  Me  parece  el  italiano  se  ha  vuelto  loco."  (I  think  the 
Italian  has  lost  his  senses). 

La  Spagna  (Florence,  1873). 


THE   TEMPLE   OF   MADURA. 

JAMES    FERGUSSON. 

THERE  does  not  seem  to  be  any  essential  difference 
either  in  plan  or  form  between  the  Saiva  and 
Vaishnava  temples  in  the  south  of  India.  It  is  only  by 
observing  the  images  or  emblems  worshipped,  or  by  reading 
the  stories  represented  in  the  numerous  sculptures  with 
which  a  temple  is  adorned,  that  we  find  out  the  god  to 
whom  it  is  dedicated.  Whoever  he  may  be,  the  temples 
consist  almost  invariably  of  the  four  following  parts, 
arranged  in  various  manners,  as  afterwards  to  be  explained, 
but  differing  in  themselves  only  according  to  the  age  in 
which  they  were  executed  :  — 

i.  The  principal  part,  the  actual  temple  itself,  is  called 
the  Vimana.  It  is  always  square  in  plan,  and  surmounted 
by  a  pyramidal  roof  of  one  or  more  storeys ;  it  contains  the 
cell  in  which  the  image  of  the  god  or  his  emblem  is  placed. 

2.  The  porches  or  Mantapas,  which  always  cover  and 
precede  the  door  leading  to  the  cell. 

3.  Gate  pyramids,  Gopuras,  "which  are  the  principal 
features  in  the  quadrangular  enclosures  which  always  sur- 
round the  Vimanas. 

4.  Pillared  halls  or  Choultries,  used  for  various  purposes, 
and  which  are  the  invariable  accompaniments  of  these 
temples. 


THE    TEMPLE    OF    MADURA.  205 

Besides  these,  a  temple  always  contains  tanks  or  wells 
for  water  —  to  be  used  either  for  sacred  purposes  or  the 
convenience  of  the  priests,  —  dwellings  for  all  the  various 
grades  of  the  priesthood  attached  to  it,  and  numerous  other 
buildings  designed  for  state  or  convenience.  .   .   . 

The  population  of  southern  India  in  the  Seventeenth  and 
Eighteenth  Century  was  probably  hardly  less  than  it  is  now 
—  some  thirty  millions — and  if  one-third  or  one-fourth 
of  such  a  population  were  to  seek  employment  in  building, 
the  results,  if  persevered  in  through  centuries,  would  be 
something  astonishing.  A  similar  state  of  affairs  prevailed 
apparently  in  Egypt  in  the  time  of  the  Pharaohs,  but  with 
very  different  results.  The  Egyptians  had  great  and  lofty 
ideas,  and  a  hankering  after  immortality,  that  impressed 
itself  on  all  their  works.  The  southern  Indians  had  no 
such  aspirations.  Their  intellectual  status  is,  and  always 
was,  mediocre ;  they  had  no  literature  of  their  own  —  no 
history  to  which  they  could  look  back  with  pride,  and  their 
religion  was,  and  is,  an  impure  and  degrading  fetishism. 
It  is  impossible  that  anything  grand  and  imposing  should 
come  out  of  such  a  state  of  things.  What  they  had  to 
offer  to  their  gods  was  a  tribute  of  labour,  and  that  was 
bestowed  without  stint.  To  cut  a  chain  of  fifty  links 
out  of  a  block  of  granite  and  suspend  it  between  two 
pillars,  was  with  them  a  triumph  of  art.  To  hollow  deep 
cornices  out  of  the  hardest  basalt,  and  to  leave  all  the 
framings,  as  if  of  the  most  delicate  woodwork,  standing 
free,  was  with  them  a  worthy  object  of  ambition,  and 
their  sculptures  are  still  inexplicable  mysteries,  from  our 
ignorance  of  how  it  was  possible  to  execute  them.     All 


206  THE    TEMPLE    OF    MADURA. 

that  millions  of  hands  working  through  centuries  could  do, 
has  been  done,  but  with  hardly  any  higher  motive  than  to 
employ  labour  and  to  conquer  difficulties,  so  as  to  astonish 
by  the  amount  of  the  first  and  the  cleverness  with  which 
the  second  was  overcome  —  and  astonished  we  are  ;  but 
without  some  higher  motive  true  architecture  cannot  exist. 
The  Dravidians  had  not  even  the  constructive  difficulties 
to  overcome  which  enabled  the  Mediaeval  architects  to 
produce  such  noble  fabrics  as  our  cathedrals.  The  aim 
of  architects  in  the  Middle  Ages  was  to  design  halls  which 
should  at  the  same  time  be  vast,  but  stable,  and  suited  for 
the  accommodation  of  great  multitudes  to  witness  a  lofty 
ritual.  In  their  struggles  to  accomplish  this  they  developed 
intellectual  powers  which  impress  us  still  through  their 
works.  No  such  lofty  aims  exercised  the  intellectual 
faculties  of  the  Hindu.  His  altar  and  the  statue  of  his 
god  were  placed  in  a  dark  cubical  cell  wholly  without  orna- 
ment, and  the  porch  that  preceded  that  was  not  neces- 
sarily either  lofty  or  spacious.  What  the  Hindu  architect 
craved  for,  was  a  place  to  display  his  powers  of  ornamen- 
tation, and  he  thought  he  had  accomplished  all  his  art 
demanded  when  he  covered  every  part  of  his  building  with 
the  most  elaborate  and  most  difficult  designs  he  could 
invent.  Much  of  this  ornamentation,  it  is  true,  is  very 
elegant,  and  evidences  of  power  and  labour  do  impress 
the  human  imagination,  often  even  in  defiance  of  our 
better  judgment,  and  nowhere  is  this  more  apparent  than 
in  these  Dravidian  temples.  It  is  in  vain,  however,  we 
look  among  them  for  any  manifestation  of  those  lofty  aims 
and  noble  results  which  constitute  the  merit  and  the  great- 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  MADURA.         207 

ness  of  true  architectural  art,  and  which  generally  charac- 
terise the  best  works  in  the  true  styles  of  the  western 
world.   .  .   . 

Immediately  in  front  of  his  choultrie,  Tirumulla  Nayak 
commenced  a  gopura,  which,  had  he  lived  to  complete  it, 
would  probably  have  been  the  finest  edifice  of  its  class  in 
southern  India.  It  measures  174  ft.  from  north  to  south, 
and  107  ft.  in  depth.  The  entrance  through  it  is  21  ft. 
9  in.  wide  ;  and  if  it  be  true  that  its  gateposts  are  60  ft. 
(Tripe  says  57  ft.)  in  height,  that  would  have  been  the 
height  of  the  opening.  It  will  thus  be  seen  that  it  was 
designed  on  even  a  larger  scale  than  that  at  Seringham, 
and  it  certainly  far  surpasses  that  celebrated  edifice  in  the 
beauty  of  its  details.  Its  doorposts  alone,  whether  57  ft. 
or  60  ft.  in  height,  are  single  blocks  of  granite,  carved 
with  the  most  exquisite  scroll  patterns  of  elaborate  foliage, 
and  all  the  other  carvings  are  equally  beautiful.  Being  un- 
finished, and  consequently  never  consecrated,  it  has  escaped 
whitewash,  and  alone,  of  all  the  buildings  of  Madura,  its 
beauties  can  still  be  admired  in  their  original  perfection. 

The  great  temple  at  Madura  is  a  larger  and  far  more 
important  building  than  the  choultrie ;  but,  somehow  01 
other,  it  has  not  attracted  the  attention  of  travellers  to  the 
same  extent  that  the  latter  has.  No  one  has  ever  attempted 
to  make  a  plan  of  it,  or  to  describe  it  in  such  detail  as 
would  enable  others  to  understand  its  peculiarities.  It 
possesses,  however,  all  the  characteristics  of  a  first-class 
Dravidian  temple,  and,  as  its  date  is  perfectly  well  known, 
it  forms  a  landmark  of  the  utmost  value  in  enabling  us  to 
fix  the  relative  date  of  other  temples. 


208         THE  TEMPLE  OF  MADURA. 

The  sanctuary  is  said  to  have  been  built  by  Viswanath, 
the  first  king  of  the  Nayak  dynasty,  a.  d.  1520,  which  may 
possibly  be  the  case ;  but  the  temple  itself  certainly  owes 
all  its  magnificence  to  Tirumulla  Nayak,  a.  d.  1622-165 7, 
or  to  his  elder  brother,  Muttu  Virappa,  who  preceded 
him,  and  who  built  a  mantapa,  said  to  be  the  oldest  thing 
now  existing  here.  The  Kalyana  mantapa  is  said  to  have 
been  built  a.  d.  1707,  and  the  Tatta  Suddhi  in  1770. 
These,  however,  are  insignificant  parts  compared  with  those 
which  certainly  owe  their  origin  to  Tirumulla  Nayak. 

The  temple  itself  is  a  nearly  regular  rectangle,  two  of 
its  sides  measuring  720  ft.  and  729  ft.,  the  other  two 
834  ft.  and  852  ft.  It  possessed  four  gopuras  of  the  first 
class,  and  five  smaller  ones  ;  a  very  beautiful  tank,  sur- 
rounded by  arcades;  and  a  hall  of  1000  columns,  whose 
sculptures  surpass  those  of  any  other  hall  of  its  class  I  am 
acquainted  with.  There  is  a  small  shrine,  dedicated  to 
the  goddess  Minakshi,  the  tutelary  deity  of  the  place, 
which  occupies  the  space  of  fifteen  columns,  so  the  real 
number  is  only  985  ;  but  it  is  not  their  number,  but  their 
marvellous  elaboration  that  makes  it  the  wonder  of  the 
place,  and  renders  it,  in  some  respects,  more  remarkable 
than  the  choultrie  about  which  so  much  has  been  said  and 
written.  I  do  not  feel  sure  that  this  hall  alone  is  not  a 
greater  work  than  the  choultrie;  taken  in  conjunction  with 
the  other  buildings  of  the  temple,  it  certainly  forms  a  far 
more  imposing  group. 

History  of  Indian  and  Eastern  Architecture  (New  York,  1891). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   MILAN. 

THEOPHILE   GAUTIER. 

THE  Cathedral  absorbs  the  attention  of  every  traveller 
who  visits  Milan.  It  dominates  the  town,  stand- 
ing in  the  centre  as  its  chief  attraction  and  marvel.  To  it 
one  hastens  immediately  on  arriving,  even  on  a  night  when 
there  is  no  moon,  to  grasp  at  least  a  few  of  its  outlines. 

The  piazza  del  Duomo,  irregular  enough  in  its  form,  is 
bordered  with  houses  of  which  it  is  customary  to  speak 
ill ;  the  guide  never  omits  telling  the  traveller  that  these 
should  be  razed  to  make  this  a  symmetrical  square  in  the 
Rivoli  taste.  I  am  not  of  this  opinion.  These  houses 
with  their  massive  pillars  and  their  saffron-coloured  awnings 
standing  opposite  to  some  irregular  buildings  of  unequal 
height,  make  a  very  good  setting  for  the  Cathedral. 
Edifices  often  lose  more  than  they  gain  by  not  being 
obstructed :  I  have  been  convinced  of  this  by  several 
Gothic  monuments,  the  effect  of  which  was  not  spoiled  by 
the  stalls  and  the  ruins  which  had  gathered  around  them, 
as  might  have  been  believed  ;  this  is  not,  however,  the 
case  with  the  Cathedral,  which  is  perfectly  isolated ;  but  I 
think  that  nothing  is  more  favourable  to  a  palace,  a  church, 
or  any  regularly  constructed  building  than  to  be  surrounded 
by  heterogeneous  buildings  which  bring  out  the  proportions 
of  the  noble  order. 


2IO  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    MILAN. 

When  we  look  at  the  Cathedral  from  the  square,  the 
effect  is  ravishing  :  the  whiteness  of  the  marble,  standing 
out  from  the  blue  of  the  sky,  strikes  you  first ;  one  would 
say  that  an  immense  piece  of  silver  lace  had  been  placed 
against  a  background  of  lapis  lazuli.  This  is  the  first 
impression,  and  it  will  also  be  the  last  memory.  When- 
ever I  think  of  the  Duomo  of  Milan,  it  always  appears 
like  this.  The  Cathedral  is  one  of  those  rare  Gothic 
churches  of  Italy,  yet  this  Gothic  resembles  ours  but 
little.  We  do  not  find  here  that  sombre  faith,  that  dis- 
quieting mystery,  those  dark  depths,  those  severe  forms, 
that  darting  up  from  earth  towards  the  sky,  that  character 
of  austerity  which  repudiates  beauty  as  too  sensual  and 
only  selects  from  a  subject  what  is  necessary  to  bring  you 
a  step  nearer  to  God ;  this  is  a  Gothic  full  of  elegance, 
grace,  and  brilliancy,  which  one  dreams  of  for  fairy  palaces 
and  with  which  one  could  build  alcazars  and  mosques  as 
well  as  a  Catholic  temple.  The  delicacy  in  its  enormous 
proportions  and  its  whiteness  make  it  look  like  a  glacier 
with  its  thousand  needles,  or  a  gigantic  concretion  of  sta- 
lactites ;   it  is  difficult  to  believe  it  the  work  of  man. 

The  design  of  the  facade  is  of  the  simplest :  it  is  an 
angle  sharp  as  the  gable-end  of  an  ordinary  house  and 
bordered  with  marble  lace,  resting  upon  a  wall  without 
any  fore-part,  of  no  distinct  order  of  architecture,  pierced 
by  five  doors  and  eight  windows  and  striped  with  six 
groups  of  columns  with  fillets,  or  rather  mouldings  which 
end  in  hollowed  out  points  surmounted  by  statues  and  filled 
in  their  interstices  with  brackets  and  niches  supporting  and 
sheltering  figures  of  angels,  saints,  and  patriarchs.     Back 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    MILAN.  211 

of  these  spring  out  from  innumerable  fillets,  like  the  pipes 
of  a  basaltic  grotto,  forests  of  little  steeples,  pinnacles, 
minarets,  and  needles  of  white  marble,  while  the  central 
spire  which  resembles  frost-work,  crystallized  in  the  air, 
rises  in  the  azure  to  a  terrific  height  and  places  the  Virgin, 
who  is  standing  upon  its  tip  with  her  foot  on  a  crescent, 
within  two  steps  of  Heaven.  In  the  middle  of  the  facade 
these  words  are  inscribed :  Mariae  nascenti,  the  dedication 
of  the  Cathedral. 

Begun  by  Jean  Galeas  Visconti,  continued  by  Ludovico 
le  More,  the  basilica  of  Milan  was  finished  by  Napoleon. 
It  is  the  largest  church  known  after  Saint  Peter's  in  Rome. 
The  interior  is  of  a  majestic  and  noble  simplicity :  rows 
of  columns  in  pairs  form  five  naves.  Notwithstanding 
their  actual  mass,  these  groups  of  columns  have  a  lightness 
of  effect  on  account  of  the  grace  of  their  shafts.  Above 
the  capitals  of  the  pillars  there  is  a  kind  of  gallery,  per- 
forated and  carved,  where  statues  of  saints  are  placed  ;  then 
the  mouldings  continue  until  they  unite  at  the  summit  of 
the  vault,  which  is  ornamented  with  trefoils  and  Gothic 
knots  made  with  such  perfection  that  they  would  deceive 
the  eye,  if  the  plaster,  which  has  fallen  in  places,  did  not 
reveal  the  naked  stone. 

In  the  centre  of  the  cross  an  opening,  surrounded  by  a 
balustrade,  allows  you  to  look  down  into  the  crypt,  where 
the  remains  of  Saint  Charles  Borromeo  rest  in  a  crystal 
coffin  covered  with  plates  of  silver.  Saint  Charles  Bor- 
romeo is  the  most  revered  saint  of  the  district.  His  virtues 
and  his  conduct  during  the  plague  in  Milan  made  him 
popular,  and  his  memory   is  always  kept  alive. 


212  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    MILAN. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  choir  upon  a  grille  which  supports 
a  crucifix,  surrounded  by  angels  in  adoration,  we  read  the 
following  inscription  framed  in  wood  :  Attendite  ad  petram 
unde  excisi  estis.  On  each  side  there  are  two  magnificent 
pulpits  of  wood,  supported  by  superb  bronze  figures  and 
ornamented  with  silver  bas-reliefs,  the  subjects  of  which 
are  their  least  value.  The  organs,  placed  not  far  from  the 
pulpits,  have  fine  paintings  by  Procacini,  if  my  memory 
does  not  deceive  me,  for  shutters ;  above  the  choir  there  is 
a  Road  to  the  Cross,  sculptured  by  Andrea  Biffi  and  several 
other  Milanese  sculptors.  The  weeping  angels,  which 
mark  the  stations,  have  a  great  variety  of  attitudes  and 
are  charming,  although  their  grace  is  somewhat  effeminate. 

The  general  impression  is  simple  and  religious  ;  a  soft 
light  invites  you  to  reflection  ;  the  large  pillars  spring  to 
the  vault  with  a  movement  full  of  vitality  and  faith  ;  not 
a  single  detail  is  here  to  destroy  the  majesty  of  the  whole. 
There  is  no  overcharging  and  no  surfeit  of  luxury:  the 
lines  follow  each  other  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and 
"the  design  of  the  edifice  is  understood  in  a  single  glance. 
The  superb  elegance  of  the  exterior  seems  but  a  veil  for 
mystery  and  humility  within  ;  the  blatant  hymn  of  marble 
makes  you  lower  your  voice  and  speak  in  a  hushed  tone : 
•the  exterior,  by  reason  of  its  lightness  and  whiteness,  is, 
perhaps,  Pagan  ;  the  interior  is,  most  assuredly,  Christian. 

In  the  corner  of  a  nave,  just  before  ascending  the  dome, 
we  glance  at  a  tomb  filled  with  allegorical  figures  cast  in 
bronze  by  the  Cavalier  Aretin  after  Michael  Angelo  in  a 
bold  and  superb  style.  You  arrive  straightway  on  the  roof 
of  the  church  after  climbing  a  stairway  decorated  at  every 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    MILAN.  213 

angle  with  prohibitive,  or  threatening  inscriptions,  which 
do  not  speak  well  in  favour  of  the  Italians'  piety  or  sense 
of  propriety. 

This  roof  all  bristling  with  steeples  and  ribbed  with  flying- 
buttresses  at  the  sides,  which  form  corridors  in  perspective, 
is  made  of  great  slabs  of  marble,  like  the  rest  of  the  edifice. 
Even  at  this  point  it  is  higher  than  the  highest  monuments 
of  the  city.     A  bas-relief  of  the  finest  execution  is  sunk  in 
each    buttress ;    each  steeple  is  peopled    with    twenty-five 
statues.       I  do  not  believe  there  is  another    place  in  the 
world  that  holds  in  the  same  amount  of  space  so  large  a 
number  of  sculptured  figures.     One  could  make  an  important 
city  with  the  marble  population  of  the  Cathedral  statues. 
Six  thousand,  seven  hundred  and  sixteen  have  been  counted. 
I  have  heard  of  a  church  in  the  Morea  painted  in  the  Byzan- 
tine style  by  the  monks  of  Mount  Athos,  which  did  not 
contain  less  than  three  thousand  figures.     This  is  as  nothing 
in  comparison  to  the  Cathedral  of  Milan.     With  regard  to 
persons  painted  and  sculptured,  I  have  often  had  this  dream 
—  that  if  ever  I  were  invested  with  magical  power  I  would 
animate  all  the  figures  created  by  art  in  granite,  in  stone,  in 
wood,  and  on  canvas  and  people  with  them  a  country  which 
would  be  a  realization  of  the  landscapes  in  the  pictures. 
The  sculptured  multitude  of  this  Cathedral  bring  back  this 
fantasy.     Among  these  statues  there  is  one  by  Canova,  a 
Saint  Sebastian,  lodged  in  an  aiguille,  and  an  Eve  by  Cristo- 
foro  Gobi,  of  such  a  charming  and  sensual  grace  that  it  is 
a  little  astonishing  to  see  her  in  such  a  place.      However, 
she  is  very  beautiful,  and  the  birds  of  the  sky  do  not  appear 
to  be  scandalized  by  her  Edenesque  costume. 


214  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    MILAN. 

From  this  platform  there  unfolds  an  immense  panorama: 
you  see  the  Alps  and  the  Apennines,  the  vast  plains  of 
Lombardy,  and  with  a  glass  you  can  regulate  your  watch 
from  the  dial  of  the  church  of  Monza,  whose  stripes  of 
black  and  white  stones  may  be  distinguished.   .  .   . 

The  ascent  of  the  spire,  which  is  perforated  and  open  to 
the  light,  is  not  at  all  dangerous,  although  it  may  affect 
people  who  are  subject  to  vertigo.  Frail  stairways  wind 
through  the  towers  and  lead  you  to  a  balcony,  above  which 
there  is  nothing  but  the  cap  of  the  spire  and  the  statue 
which  crowns  the  edifice. 

I  will  not  try  to  describe  this  gigantic  basilica  in  detail. 
A  volume  would  be  needed  for  its  monograph.  As  a  mere 
artist  I  must  be  content  with  a  general  view  and  a  personal 
impression.  After  one  has  descended  into  the  street  and 
has  made  the  tour  of  the  church  one  finds  on  the  lateral 
facades  and  apses  the  same  crowd  of  statues,  the  same 
multitude  of  bas-reliefs  :  it  is  a  terrifying  debauch  of  sculp- 
ture, an  incredible  heap  of  wonders. 

Around  the  Cathedral  all  kinds  of  little  industries  prosper, 
stalls  of  second-hand  booksellers,  opticians  selling  their  wares 
in  the  open  air,  and  even  a  theatre  of  marionnettes,  whose 
performances  I  promise  myself  not  to  miss.  Human  life 
with  its  trivialities  swarms  and  stirs  at  the  foot  of  this 
majestic  edifice,  which,  like  petrified  fireworks,  is  bursting 
its  white  rockets  in  the  sky  ;  here,  as  everywhere,  we  find 
the  same  contrast  of  sublimity  of  idea  and  vulgarity  of  fact. 
The  temple  of  the  Saviour  throws  its  shadow  across  the  hut 
of  Punchinello. 

Voyage  en  Italie  (Paris,  new  ed.,  1884). 


THE   TEMPLE   OF    MADURA. 


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THE   MOSQUE   OF   HASSAN. 

AMELIA    B.   EDWARDS. 

THE  mosque  of  Sultan  Hassan,  confessedly  the  most 
beautiful  in  Cairo,  is  also  perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
in  the  Moslem  world.  It  was  built  at  just  that  happy 
moment  when  Arabian  art  in  Egypt,  having  ceased  merely 
to  appropriate  or  imitate,  had  at  length  evolved  an  original 
architectural  style  out  of  the  heterogeneous  elements  of 
Roman  and  early  Christian  edifices.  The  mosques  of  a 
few  centuries  earlier  (as,  for  instance,  that  of  Tulun,  which 
marks  the  first  departure  from  the  old  Byzantine  model) 
consisted  of  little  more  than  a  courtyard  with  colonnades 
leading  to  a  hall  supported  on  a  forest  of  pillars.  A  little 
more  than  a  century  later,  and  the  national  style  had  already 
experienced  the  beginnings  of  that  prolonged  eclipse  which 
finally  resulted  in  the  bastard  Neo-Byzantine  Renaissance 
represented  by  the  mosque  of  Mehemet  Ali.  But  the 
mosque  of  Sultan  Hassan,  built  ninety-seven  years  before 
the  taking  of  Constantinople,  may  justly  be  regarded  as  the 
highest  point  reached  by  Saracenic  art  in  Egypt  after  it  had 
used  up  the  Greek  and  Roman  material  of  Memphis,  and 
before  its  new-born  originality  became  modified  by  influence 
from  beyond  the  Bosphorus.     Its  pre-eminence  is  due  neither 

to  the  greatness  of  its  dimensions,  nor  to  the  splendour  of 

8— Vol.  3 


2l6  THE    MOSQUE    OF    HASSAN. 

its  materials.  It  is  neither  so  large  as  the  great  mosque  at 
Damascus,  nor  so  rich  in  costly  marbles  as  Saint  Sophia  in 
Constantinople;  but  in  design,  proportion,  and  a  certain 
lofty  grace  impossible  to  describe,  it  surpasses  these,  and 
every  other  mosque,  whether  original  or  adapted,  with  which 
the  writer  is  acquainted. 

The  whole  structure  is  purely  national.  Every  line  and 
curve  in  it,  and  every  inch  of  detail,  is  in  the  best  style  of 
the  best  period  of  the  Arabian  school.  And  above  all,  it 
was  designed  expressly  for  its  present  purpose.  The  two 
famous  mosques  of  Damascus  and  Constantinople  having, 
on  the  contrary,  been  Christian  churches,  betray  evidences 
of  adaptation.  In  Saint  Sophia,  the  space  once  occupied  by 
the  figure  of  the  Redeemer  may  be  distinctly  traced  in  the 
mosaic-work  of  the  apse,  filled  in  with  gold  tesserae  of  later 
date;  while  the  magnificent  gates  of  the  great  mosque  at 
Damascus  are  decorated,  among  other  Christian  emblems, 
with  the  sacramental  chalice.  But  the  mosque  of  Sultan 
Hassan  built  by  En  Nasir  Hassan  in  the  high  and  palmy 
days  of  the  Memlook  rule,  is  marred  by  no  discrepancies. 
For  a  mosque  it  was  designed,  and  a  mosque  it  remains. 
Too  soon  it  will  be  only  a  beautiful  ruin. 

A  number  of  small  streets  having  lately  been  demolished 
in  this  quarter,  the  approach  to  the  mosque  lies  across 
a  desolate  open  space  littered  with  debris,  but  destined  to 
be  laid  out  as  a  public  square.  With  this  desirable  end  in 
view,  some  half  dozen  workmen  were  lazily  loading  as 
many  camels  with  rubble,  which  is  the  Arab  way  of  carting 
rubbish.  If  they  persevere,  and  the  Minister  of  Public 
Works  continues  to  pay  their  wages  with  due  punctuality, 


THE    MOSQUE    OF    HASSAN.  2\J 

the  ground  will  perhaps  get  cleared  in  eight  or  ten  years' 
time. 

Driving  up  with  some  difficulty  to  the  foot  of  the  great 
steps,  which  were  crowded  with  idlers  smoking  and  sleeping, 
we  observed  a  long  and  apparently  fast-widening  fissure 
reaching  nearly  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  main  wall  of  the 
building,  close  against  the  minaret.  It  looked  like  just 
such  a  rent  as  might  be  caused  by  a  shock  of  earthquake, 
and,  being  still  new  to  the  East,  we  wondered  the  Govern- 
ment had  not  set  to  work  to  mend  it.  We  had  yet  to  learn 
that  nothing  is  ever  mended  in  Cairo.  Here,  as  in  Con- 
stantinople, new  buildings  spring  up  apace,  but  the  old,  no 
matter  how  venerable,  are  allowed  to  moulder  away,  inch 
by  inch,  till  nothing  remains  but  a  heap  of  ruins. 

Going  up  the  steps  and  through  a  lofty  hall,  up  some 
more  steps  and  along  a  gloomy  corridor,  we  came  to  the 
great  court,  before  entering  which,  however,  we  had  to  take 
off  our  boots  and  put  on  slippers  brought  for  the  purpose. 
The  first  sight  of  this  court  is  an  architectural  surprise.  It 
is  like  nothing  that  one  has  seen  before,  and  its  beauty  equals 
its  novelty.  Imagine  an  immense  marble  quadrangle,  open 
to  the  sky  and  enclosed  within  lofty  walls,  with,  at  each 
side,  a  vast  recess  framed  in  by  a  single  arch.  The  quad- 
rangle is  more  than  ioo  feet  square,  and  the  walls  are  more 
than  ioo  feet  high.  Each  recess  forms  a  spacious  hall  for 
rest  and  prayer,  and  all  are  matted ;  but  that  at  the  eastern 
end  is  wider  and  considerably  deeper  than  the  other  three, 
and  the  noble  arch  that  encloses  it  like  the  proscenium  of  a 
splendid  stage,  measures,  according  to  Fergusson,  69  feet  5 
inches  in  the  span.     It  looks  much  larger.     This  principal 


2l8  THE    MOSQUE    OF    HASSAN. 

hall,  the  floor  of  which  is  raised  one  step  at  the  upper  end, 
measures  90  feet  in  depth  and  90  in  height.  The  dais  is 
covered  with  prayer-rugs,  and  contains  the  holy  niche  and 
the  pulpit  of  the  preacher.  We  observed  that  those  who 
came  up  here  came  only  to  pray.  Having  prayed,  they 
either  went  away  or  turned  aside  into  one  of  the  other 
recesses  to  rest.  There  was  a  charming  fountain  in  the 
court,  with  a  dome-roof  as  light  and  fragile-looking  as  a  big 
bubble,  at  which  each  worshipper  performed  his  ablutions 
on  coming  in.  This  done,  he  left  his  slippers  on  the 
matting  and  trod  the  carpeted  dais  barefoot.   .  .   . 

While  we  were  admiring  the  spring  of  the  roof  and  the 
intricate  Arabesque  decorations  of  the  pulpit,  a  custode 
came  up  with  a  big  key  and  invited  us  to  visit  the  tomb  of 
the  founder.  So  we  followed  him  into  an  enormous  vaulted 
hall  a  hundred  feet  square,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  a 
plain,  railed-off  tomb,  with  an  empty  iron-bound  coffer  at 
the  foot.  We  afterwards  learned  that  for  five  hundred 
years  —  that  is  to  say,  ever  since  the  death  and  burial  of 
Sultan  Hassan  —  this  coffer  had  contained  a  fine  copy  of 
the  Koran,  traditionally  said  to  have  been  written  by  Sultan 
Hassan's  own  hand ;  but  that  the  Khedive,  who  is  collecting 
choice  and  antique  Arabic  MSS.,  had  only  the  other  day 
sent  an  order  for  its  removal. 

Nothing  can  be  bolder  or  more  elegant  than  the  proportions 
of  this  nobfe  sepulchral  hall,  the  walls  of  which  are  covered 
with  tracery  in  low  relief  incrusted  with  discs  and  tesserae 
of  turquoise-coloured  porcelain  ;  while  high  up,  in  order  to 
lead  off*  the  vaulting  of  the  roof,  the  corners  are  rounded  by 
means  of  recessed  clusters  of  exquisite  Arabesque  woodwork, 


THE    MOSQUE    OF    HASSAN.  219 

like  pendant  stalactites.  But  the  tesserae  are  fast  falling 
out,  and  most  of  their  places  are  vacant ;  and  the  beautiful 
woodwork  hangs  in  fragments,  tattered  and  cobwebbed,  like 
time-worn  banners  which  the  first  touch  of  a  brush  would 
bring  down. 

Going  back  again  from  the  tomb  to  the  courtyard,  we 
everywhere  observed  traces  of  the  same  dilapidation.  The 
fountain,  once  a  miracle  of  Sarascenic  ornament,  was  fast 
going  to  destruction.  The  rich  marbles  of  its  basement 
were  cracked  and  discoloured,  its  stuccoed  cupola  was 
flaking  off  piecemeal,  its  enamels  were  dropping  out,  its 
lace-like  wood  tracery  shredding  away  by  inches. 

Presently  a  tiny  brown  and  golden  bird  perched  with 
pretty  confidence  on  the  brink  of  the  basin,  and  having 
splashed,  and  drunk,  and  preened  its  feathers  like  a  true 
believer  at  his  ablutions,  flew  up  to  the  top  of  the  cupola 
and  sang  deliciously.  All  dse  was  profoundly  still.  Large 
spaces  of  light  and  shadow  divided  the  quadrangle.  The 
sky  showed  overhead  as  a  square  opening  of  burning  solid 
blue  ;  while  here  and  there,  reclining,  praying,  or  quietly 
occupied,  a  number  of  turbaned  figures  were  picturesquely 
scattered  over  the  matted  floors  of  the  open  halls  around. 
Yonder  sat  a  tailor  cross-legged,  making  a  waistcoat ;  near 
him,  stretched  on  his  face  at  full  length,  sprawled  a  basket- 
maker  with  his  half-woven  basket  and  bundle  of  rushes 
beside  him ;  and  here,  close  against  the  main  entrance,  lay 
a  blind  man  and  his  dog  ;  the  master  asleep,  the  dog  keeping 
watch.  It  was,  as  I  have  said,  our  first  mosque,  and  I  well 
remember  the  surprise  with  which  we  saw  that  tailor  sewing 
on  his  buttons,  and  the  sleepers  lying  about  in  the  shade. 


220  THE    MOSQUE    OF    HASSAN. 

We  did  not  then  know  that  a  Mohammedan  mosque  is  as 
much  a  place  of  rest  and  refuge  as  of  prayer;  or  that  the 
houseless  Arab  may  take  shelter  there  by  night  or  day  as 
freely  as  the  birds  may  build  their  nests  in  the  cornice,  or  as 
the  blind  man's  dog  may  share  the  cool  shade  with  the  sleep- 
ing master. 

A  Thousand  Miles  up  the  Nile  (London,  2d  ed.,  1889). 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OP  TR&VE9. 

EDWARD   AUGUSTUS    FREEMAN. 

THE  ancient  capital  of  the  Treveri  has  the  privilege 
of  being  known  by  two  modern  names,  native  and 
foreign,  each  of  which  preserves  a  letter  of  the  ancient 
name  which  is  lost  in  its  rival.  Treveris  is  by  its  own 
people  contracted  into  Trier,  while  by  its  neighbours  it 
is  cut  short  into  Treves.  But  one  who  looks  out  from  the 
amphitheatre  beyond  its  walls  on  the  city  which  boasts 
itself  to  have  stood  for  thirteen  hundred  years  longer  than 
Rome,  will  be  inclined  to  hold  that  the  beauty  of  its 
position  and  the  interest  of  its  long  history  cannot  lose 
their  charm  under  any  name.  It  was  not  without  reason 
that  the  mythical  Trebetas,  son  of  Ninus,  after  wandering 
through  all  lands,  pitched  on  the  spot  by  the  Mosel  as  the 
loveliest  and  richest  site  that  he  could  find  for  the  founda- 
tion of  the  first  city  which  arose  on  European  soil.  .   .  . 

Trier  holds,  north  of  the  Alps,  a  position  which  is  in 
some  respects  analogous  to  the  position  of  Ravenna  south 
of  the  Alps.  The  points  both  of  likeness  and  unlikeness 
between  the  two  cities  may  be  instructively  compared.  In 
physical  position  no  two  cities  can  well  be  more  opposite. 
No  two  spots  can  be  more  unlike  than  Trier,  with  its  hills, 
its  river,  and  its  bridge,  and  Ravenna,  forsaken  by  the  sea, 
left  in  its  marshy  flat,  with  its  streets,  which  were  once 


222  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TREVES. 

canals  like  those  of  Venice,  now  canals  no  longer.  In 
their  history  the  two  cities  have  thus  much  in  common, 
that  each  was  a  seat  of  the  Imperial  power  of  Rome  in 
the  days  of  its  decline.  Each  too  is  remarkable  for  its 
rich  store  of  buildings  handed  on  from  the  days  of  its 
greatness,  buildings  which  stamp  upon  each  city  an  unique 
character  of  its  own.  But,  when  we  more  minutely  com- 
pare either  the  history  or  the  surviving  antiquities  of  the 
two  cities,  when  we  compare  the  circumstances  under 
which  each  city  rose  to  greatness,  we  shall  find  on  the 
whole  less  of  likeness  than  of  unlikeness.  The  difference 
may  be  summed  up  when  we  say  that  Trier  is  the  city  of 
Constantine,  that  Ravenna  is  the  city  of  Honorius.   .   .   . 

Ravenna  has  nothing  of  any  consequence  belonging 
either  to  heathen  Roman  or  to  mediaeval  times ;  its  monu- 
ments belong  to  the  days  of  Honorius  and  Placidia,  to  the 
days  of  the  Gothic  kingdom,  to  the  very  first  days  of  the 
restored  Imperial  rule.  To  these,  except  one  or  two  of 
the  churches  of  Rome,  there  is  nothing  in  the  West  to 
answer.  The  monuments  of  Trier  are  spread  over  a  far 
wider  space  of  time.  They  stretch  from  the  first  days  of 
Roman  occupation  to  an  advanced  stage  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  The  mighty  pile  of  the  Black  Gate,  the  Porta  Nigra 
or  Porta  Martis^  a  pile  to  which  Ravenna,  and  Rome 
herself,  can  supply  no  rival,  is  a  work  which  it  is  hard  to 
believe  can  belong  to  any  days  but  those  when  the  city 
was  the  dwelling-place  of  Emperors.  Yet  scholars  are 
not  lacking  who  argue  that  it  really  dates  from  the  early 
days  of  the  Roman  only,  from  a  date  earlier  than  that 
which  some  other  scholars   assign  to  the  first  foundations 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TREVES.  223 

of  th  colony,  from  the  days  of  Claudius.  The  amphi- 
theati,;  is  said  to  date  from  the  reign  of  Trajan.  The 
basilica,  so  strangely  changed  into  a  Protestant  church  by 
the  late  King  of  Prussia,  can  hardly  fail  to  be  the  work 
of  Constantine.  But,  after  all,  the  building  at  Trier 
which  will  most  reward  careful  study  is  the  metropolitan 
church.  At  the  first  glimpse  it  seems  less  unique  thai? 
the  Porta  Nigra  ;  its  distinct  outline  is  massive  and  pictur- 
esque, but  it  is  an  outline  with  which  every  one  who  has 
seen  many  of  the  great  churches  of  Germany  must  be 
thoroughly  familiar.  Or,  if  it  has  a  special  character  of 
its  own,  it  seems  to  come  from  the  blending  of  the  four 
towers  of  the  main  buildings  with  a  fifth,  the  massive  tower 
of  the  Liebfrauenkirche,  which,  in  the  general  view,  none 
would  fancy  to  be  one  of  the  most  perfect  and  graceful 
specimens  of  the  early  German  Gothic  of  the  Thirteenth 
Century.  It  is  only  gradually  that  the  unique  character 
of  the  building  dawns  on  the  inquirer.  What  at  first  sight 
seemed  to  be  a  church  of  the  type  of  Mainz,  Worms,  and 
Speyer,  and  inferior  to  them  in  lacking  the  central  tower 
or  cupola,  turns  out  to  be  something  which  has  no  parallel 
north  of  the  Alps,  nor,  we  may  add,  south  of  them  either. 
It  is  a  Roman  building  of  the  Sixth  Century — none  the 
less  Roman  for  being  built  under  a  Frankish  king  —  pre- 
serving large  portions  of  a  yet  earlier  building  of  the 
Fourth.  The  capitals  of  its  mighty  columns  peep  out 
from  amid  the  later  work,  and  fragments  of  the  pillars  lie 
about  in  the  cloister  and  before  the  western  door,  as  the 
like  fragments  do  in  the  Forum  of  Trajan.  Repaired  and 
enlarged    in   the   Eleventh   Century   in  remarkably  close 


224  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    TREVES. 

imitation  of  the  original  design,  the  church  has  gone 
through  a  series  of  additions  and  recastings,  in  order  to 
change  it  into  the  likeness  of  an  ordinary  mediaeval  German 
church.  Had  St.  Vital  at  Ravenna,  had  St.  Sophia  itself, 
stood  where  the  Dom  of  Trier  stands,  the  same  misapplied 
labour  would  most  likely  have  been  bestowed  upon  them. 
But,  well  pleased  as  we  should  have  been  to  have  had  such 
a  building  as  this  kept  to  us  in  its  original  form,  there  is 
no  denying  that  those  who  enjoy  spelling  out  the  changes 
which  a  great  building  has  gone  through,  comparing  the 
statements  of  the  local  chroniclers  with  the  evidence  of 
the  building  itself — a  process  which,  like  every  other 
process  of  discovery,  is  not  without  its  charm  —  will  find 
no  more  attractive  problem  of  the  kind  than  is  supplied  by 
the  venerable  minster  of  Trier. 

Historical  and  Architectural  Sketches  (London,  1876), 


THE  VATICAN. 

AUGUSTUS  J.  C.  HARE. 

THE   hollow  of  the  Janiculum   between   S.    Onofrio 
and  the   Monte  Mario   is   believed  to  have  been 
the  site  of  Etruscan  divination. 

"  Fauni  vatesque  canebant." 

Ennius. 

Hence  the  name,  which  is  now  only  used  in  regard  to  the 
Papal  palace  and  the  Basilica  of  S.  Peter,  but  which  was 
once  applied  to  the  whole  district  between  the  foot  of  the 
hill  and  the  Tiber  near  S.  Angelo. 

"  .   .   .   Ut  paterni 
Fluminis  ripae,  simul  et  jocosa 
Redderet  laudes  tibi  Vaticani 
Montis  imago." 

Horace,  Od.  i.  20. 

Tacitus  speaks  of  the  unwholesome  air  of  this  quarter. 
In  this  district  was  the  Circus  of  Caligula,  adjoining  the 
gardens  of  his  mother  Agrippina,  decorated  by  the  obelisk 
which  now  stands  in  the  front  of  S.  Peter's,  near  which 
many  believe  that  S.  Peter  suffered  martyrdom.1 

Here  Seneca  describes  that  while  Caligula  was  walking 

1  Pliny  xxxv.  15. 


226  THE    VATICAN. 

by  torchlight  he  amused  himself  by  the  slaughter  of  a 
number  of  distinguished  persons  —  senators  and  Roman 
ladies.  Afterwards  it  became  the  Circus  of  Nero,  who 
from  his  adjoining  gardens  used  to  watch  the  martyrdom 
of  the  Christians x  —  mentioned  by  Suetonius  as  "  a  race 
given  up  to  a  new  and  evil  superstition  "  —  and  who  used 
their  living  bodies,  covered  with  pitch  and  set  on  fire,  as 
torches  for  his  nocturnal  promenades. 

The  first  residence  of  the  Popes  at  the  Vatican  was 
erected  by  S.  Symmachus  (a.  d.  498-514)  near  the  fore- 
court of  the  old  S.  Peter's,  and  here  Charlemagne  is 
believed  to  have  resided  on  the  occasion  of  his  several 
visits  to  Rome  during  the  reigns  of  Adrian  I.  (772—795) 
and  Leo  III.  (795-816).  During  the  Twelfth  Century 
this  ancient  palace  having  fallen  into  decay,  it  was  rebuilt 
in  the  Thirteenth  by  Innocent  III.  It  was  greatly  enlarged 
by  Nicholas  III.  (1277-81) ;  but  the  Lateran  continued  to 
be  the  Papal  residence,  and  the  Vatican  palace  was  only 
used  on  state  occasions,  and  for  the  reception  of  any 
foreign  sovereigns  visiting  Rome.  After  the  return  of  the 
Popes  from  Avignon,  the  Lateran  palace  had  fallen  into 
decay,  and,  for  the  sake  of  the  greater  security  afforded  by 
the  vicinity  of  S.  Angelo,  it  was  determined  to  make  the 
Pontifical  residence  at  the  Vatican,  and  the  first  Conclave 
was  held  there  in  1378.  In  order  to  increase  its  security, 
John  XXIII.  constructed  the  covered  passage  to  S.  Angelo 
in  1410.  Nicholas  V.  (1447-55)  had  the.  idea  of  making 
it  the  most  magnificent  palace  in  the  world,  and  of  uniting 
in    it    all    the    government    offices   and    dwellings    of  the 

1  Tac.  Ann.  xv.  44. 


THE    VATICAN.  22? 

cardinals.  He  wished  to  make  it  for  Christendom  that 
which  the  Milliarium  Aureum  in  the  Forum  was  to  the 
Roman  Empire,  the  centre  whence  all  the  messengers  of 
the  spiritual  empire  should  go  forth,  bearing  words  of  life, 
truth,  and  peace.1  Unfortunately  Nicholas  died  before  he 
could  carry  out  his  designs.  The  building  which  he  com- 
menced was  finished  by  Alexander  VI.,  and  still  exists 
under  the  name  of  Tor  di  Borgia.  In  the  reign  of  this 
Pope,  his  son  Cesare  murdered  Alphonso,  Duke  of  Bis- 
ceglia,  husband  of  his  sister  Lucrezia,  in  the  Vatican 
(August  1 8,  1500).  To  Paul  II.  was  due  the  Court  of 
S.  Damasus.  In  1473  Sixtus  IV.  built  the  Sixtine  Chapel, 
and  in  1490  "  the  Belvedere  "  was  erected  as  a  separate 
garden-house  by  Innocent  VIII.  from  designs  of  Antonio 
da  Pollajuolo.  Julius  II.,  with  the  aid  of  Bramante, 
united  this  villa  to  the  palace  by  means  of  one  vast  court- 
yard, and  erected  the  Loggie  around  the  court  of  S.  Dam- 
asus ;  he  also  laid  the  foundation  of  the  Vatican  Museum 
in  the  gardens  of  the  Belvedere.  The  Loggie  were  com- 
pleted by  Leo  X.  ;  the  Sala  Regia  and  the  Paoline  Chapel 
were  built  by  Paul  III.  Sixtus  V.  divided  the  great  court 
of  Bramante  into  two  by  the  erection  of  the  library,  and 
began  the  present  residence  of  the  Popes,  which  was 
finished  by  Clement  VIIL  (1 592-1 605).  Urban  VIII. 
built  the  Scala  Regia;  Clement  XIV.  and  Pius  VI.,  the 
Museo  Pio-Clementino  (for  which  the  latter  pulled  down 
the  chapel  of  Innocent  VIIL,  full  of  precious  frescoes  by 
Mantegna) ;  Pius  VII.,  the  Braccio  Nuovo  ;  Leo  XII., 
the  picture-gallery  ;  Gregory  XVI.,  the  Etruscan  Museum, 

1  See  Rio. 


228  THE    VATICAN. 

and  Pius  IX.,  the  handsome  staircase  leading  to  the  court 
of  Bramante. 

The  length  of  the  Vatican  Palace  is  1151  English  feet; 
its  breadth,  767.  It  has  eight  grand  staircases,  twenty 
courts,  and  is  said  to  contain  11,000  chambers  of  different 
sizes. 

The  principal  entrance  to  the  Vatican  is  at  the  end  of 
the  right  colonnade  of  S.  Peter's.  Hence  a  door  on  the 
right  opens  upon  the  staircase  leading  to  the  Cortile  di 
S.  Damaso,  and  is  the  nearest  way  to  all  the  collections, 
and  the  one  by  which  visitors  were  admitted  until  the  fall 
of  the  Papal  government.  The  fountain  of  the  Cortile, 
designed  by  Algardi  in  1649,  is  fed  by  the  Acqua  Dam- 
asiana,  due  to  Pope  Damasus  in  the  Fourth  Century. 

Following  the  great  corridor,  and  passing  on  the  left 
the  entrance  to  the  portico  of  S.  Peter's,  we  reach  the 
Scala  Regia,  a  magnificent  work  of  Bernini,  watched  by 
the  picturesque  Swiss  guard  of  the  Pope.  Hence  we  enter 
the  Sala  Regia,  built  in  the  reign  of  Paul  III.  by  Antonio 
di  Sangallo,  and  used  as  a  hall  of  audience  for  ambassadors. 
It  is  decorated  with  frescoes  illustrative  of  the  history  of 
the  Popes. 

On  the  right  is  the  entrance  of  the  Paoline  Chapel 
(Cappella  Paolina),  also  built  (1540)  by  Antonio  di  San- 
gallo for  Paul  III.  Its  decorations  are  chiefly  the  work  of 
Sabbatini  and  F.  Zucchero,  but  it  contains  two  frescoes 
by    Michelangelo. 

On  the  left  of  the  approach  from  the  Scala  Regia  is  the 
Sixtine  Chapel  (Cappella  Sistina),  built  by  Baccio  Pintelli 
in  1473  f°r  Sixtus  IV- 


THE    VATICAN.  229 

The  lower  part  of  the  walls  of  this  wonderful  chapel 
was  formerly  hung  on  festivals  with  the  tapestries  executed 
from  the  cartoons  of  Raffaelle ;  the  upper  portion  is 
decorated  in  fresco  by  the  great  Florentine  masters  of  the 
Fifteenth  Century.   .  .  . 

On  the  pillars  between  the  windows  are  the  figures  of 
twenty-eight  Popes,  by  Sandro  Botticelli.  .   .   . 

The  avenue  of  pictures  is  a  preparation  for  the  sur- 
passing grandeur  of  the  ceiling. 

The  pictures  from  the  Old  Testament,  beginning  from 
the  altar,  are  :  —  I.  The  Separation  of  Light  and  Dark- 
ness ;  2.  The  Creation  of  the  Sun  and  Moon  ;  3.  The 
Creation  of  Trees  and  Plants  ;  4.  The  Creation  of  Adam  ; 
5.  The  Creation  of  Eve;  6.  The  Fall  and  the  Expul- 
sion from  Paradise  ;  7.  The  Sacrifice  of  Noah  ;  8.  The 
Deluge ;  9.  The  Intoxication  of  Noah. 

The  lower  portion  of  the  ceiling  is  divided  into  triangles 
occupied  by  the  Prophets  and  Sibyls  in  solemn  contem- 
plation, accompanied  by  angels  and  genii.  Beginning 
from  the  left  of  the  entrance,  their  order  is — I.  Joel; 
2.  Sibylla  Erythraea ;  3.  Ezekiel ;  4.  Sibylla  Persica  ;  5. 
Jonah;  6.  Sibylla  Libyca;  7.  Daniel;  8.  Sibylla  Cumaea; 
9.  Isaiah;    10.  Sibylla  Delphica. 

In  the  recesses  between  the  Prophets  and  Sibyls  are  a 
series  of  lovely  family  groups  representing  the  Genealogy 
of  the  Virgin,  and  expressive  of  calm  expectation  of  the 
future.  The  four  corners  of  the  ceiling  contain  groups 
illustrative  of  the  power  of  the  Lord  displayed  in  the 
especial  deliverance  of  His  chosen  people. 

Only  3000  ducats  were  paid  to  Michelangelo  for  all  his 


230  THE    VATICAN. 

great    work    on    the    ceiling   of   the  Sixtine ;    less  than   a 
common   decorator  obtains  in   the  Nineteenth  Century. 

It  was  when  Michelangelo  was  already  in  his  sixtieth 
year  that  Clement  VII.  formed  the  idea  of  effacing  the 
three  pictures  of  Perugino  at  the  end  of  the  chapel,  and 
employing  him  to  paint  the  vast  fresco  of  The  Last  Judg- 
ment in  their  place.  It  occupied  the  artist  for  seven  years, 
and  was  finished  in  1541,  when  Paul  III.  was  on  the 
throne.  During  this  time  Michelangelo  frequently  read 
and  re-read  the  wonderful  sermons  of  Savonarola,  to  refresh 
his  mind,  and  that  he  might  drink  in  the  inspiration  of 
their  own  religious  awe  and  Dantesque  imagination.   .   .  . 

The  small  portion  of  the  Vatican  inhabited  by  the 
Pope  is  never  seen  except  by  those  who  are  admitted  to  a 
special  audience.  The  three  rooms  occupied  by  the  pontiff 
are  furnished  with  a  simplicity  which  would  be  inconceiv- 
able in  the  abode  of  any  other  sovereign  prince.  The 
furniture  is  confined  to  the  merest  necessaries  of  life  j 
strange  contrast  to  Lambeth  and  Fulham  !  The  apart- 
ment consists  of  the  bare  Green  Saloon  ;  the  Red  Saloon, 
containing  a  throne  flanked  by  benches  ;  and  the  bedroom, 
with  yellow  draperies,  a  large  writing  table,  and  a  few 
pictures  by  old  masters.  The  Papal  life  is  a  lonely  one, 
as  the  dread  of  an  accusation  of  nepotism  has  prevented 
any  of  the  later  Popes  from  having  any  of  their  family 
with  them,  and  etiquette  always  obliges  them  to  dine,  etc., 
alone.  Pius  IX.  seldom  saw  his  family,  but  Leo  XIII.  is 
often  visited  twice  a  day  by  his  relations  —  "La  Sainte 
Famille,"  as  they  are  generally  called. 

No  one,  whatever  the  difference  of  creed,  can  look  upon 


THE    VATICAN.  231 

this  building,  inhabited  by  the  venerable  men  who  have 
borne  so  important  a  part  in  the  history  of  Christianity 
and  of  Europe,  without  the  deepest  interest.   .  .  . 

The  windows  of  the  Egyptian  Museum  look  upon 
the  inner  Garden  of  the  Vatican,  which  may  be  reached  by 
a  door  at  the  end  of  the  long  gallery  of  the  Museo  Chiara- 
monti,  before  ascending  to  the  Torso.  The  garden  which 
is  thus  entered,  called  Giardino  della  Pigna,  is  in  fact  merely 
the  second  great  quadrangle  of  the  Vatican,  planted,  undei 
Pius  IX.,  with  shrubs  and  flowers,  now  a  desolate  wilder- 
ness—  its  lovely  garden  having  been  destroyed  by  the 
present  Vatican  authorities  to  make  way  for  a  monumental 
column  to  the  Council  of  1870.  Several  interesting  relics 
are  preserved  here.  In  the  centre  is  the  Pedestal  of  the 
Column  of  Antoninus  Pius,  found  in  1 709  on  the  Monte 
Citorio.  The  column  was  a  simple  memorial  pillar  of 
granite,  erected  by  the  two  adopted  sons  of  the  Emperor, 
Marcus  Aurelius  and  Lucius  Verus.  It  was  broken  up  to 
mend  the  obelisk  of  Psammeticus  I.  at  the  Monte  Citorio. 
Among  the  reliefs  of  the  pedestal  is  one  of  a  winged  genius 
guiding  Antoninus  and  Faustina  to  Olympus.  The  modern 
pillar  and  statue  are  erections  of  Leo  XIII.  In  front  of 
the  great  semicircular  niche  of  Bramante,  at  the  end  of  the 
court-garden,  is  the  famous  Pigna,  a  gigantic  fir-cone, 
which  is  said  once  to  have  crowned  the  summit  of  the 
Mausoleum  of  Hadrian.  Thence  it  was  first  removed  to 
the  front  of  the  old  basilica  of  S.  Peter's,  where  it  was 
used  for  a  fountain.  In  the  fresco  of  the  old  S.  Peter's 
at  S.  Martino  al  Monte  the  pigna  is  introduced,  but  it  is 
there  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  nave,  a  position  it  never 


232  THE    VATICAN. 

occupied.  It  bears  the  name  of  the  bronze-founder  who 
cast  it  —  "  P.  Cincivs.  P.  L.  Calvivs.  fecit."  Dante  saw 
it  at  S.  Peter's,  and  compares  it  to  a  giant's  head  (it  is 
eleven  feet  high)  which  he  saw  through  the  mist  in  the 
last  circle  of  hell. 

"  La  faccia  mi  parea  longa  e  grossa 
Come  la  pina  di  S.  Pietro  in  Roma." 

Inf.  xxxi.  58. 

On  either  side  of  the  pigna  are  two  lovely  bronze 
peacocks,  which  are  said  to  have  stood  on  either  side  of 
the  entrance  of  Hadrian's  Mausoleum. 

A  flight  of  steps  leads  from  this  court  to  the  narrow 
Terrace  of  the  Navicella,  in  front  of  the  palace,  so  called 
from  a  bronze  ship  with  which  its  fountain  is  decorated. 
The  visitor  should  beware  of  the  tricksome  waterworks 
upon  this  terrace. 

Beyond  the  courtyard  is  the  entrance  to  the  larger 
garden,  which  may  be  reached  in  a  carriage  by  the  courts 
at  the  back  of  S.  Peter's.  Admittance  is  difficult  to  obtain, 
as  the  garden  is  constantly  used  by  the  Pope.  Pius  IX. 
used  to  ride  here  upon  his  white  mule.  It  is  a  most 
delightful  retreat  for  the  hot  days  of  May  and  June,  and 
before  that  time  its  woods  are  carpeted  with  wild  violets 
and  anemones.  No  one  who  has  not  visited  them  can 
form  any  idea  of  the  beauty  of  these  ancient  groves,  in- 
terspersed with  fountains  and  statues,  but  otherwise  left  to 
nature,  and  forming  a  fragment  of  sylvan  scenery  quite 
unassociated  with  the  English  idea  of  a  garden.  .  .  . 
The    Sixteenth    Century  was    the    golden  age   for    the 


THE    VATICAN.  233 

Vatican.  Then  the  splendid  court  of  Leo  X.  was  the 
centre  of  artistic  and  literary  life,  and  the  witty  and 
pleasure-loving  Pope  made  these  gardens  the  scene  of  his 
banquets  and  concerts  ;  and,  in  a  circle  to  which  ladies 
were  admitted,  as  in  a  secular  court,  listened  to  the  recita- 
tions of  the  poets  who  sprang  up  under  his  protection, 
beneath  the  shadow  of  their  woods. 

Walks  in  Rome  (13th  ed.,  London,  1896). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   AMIENS. 

JOHN    RUSKIN. 

IT  is  the  admitted  privilege  of  a  custode  who  loves  his 
cathedral  to  depreciate,  in  its  comparison,  all  the  other 
cathedrals  of  his  country  that  resemble,  and  all  the  edifices 
on  the  globe  that  differ  from  it..  But  I  love  too  many 
cathedrals  —  though  I  have  never  had  the  happiness  of 
becoming  the  custode  of  even  one  —  to  permit  myself  the 
easy  and  faithful  exercise  of  the  privilege  in  question ;  and 
I  must  vindicate  my  candour  and  my  judgment  in  the  out- 
set, by  confessing  that  the  Cathedral  of  Amiens  has  nothing 
to  boast  of  in  the  way  of  towers,  —  that  its  central  fiecbe  is 
merely  the  pretty  caprice  of  a  village  carpenter,  —  that  the 
total  structure  is  in  dignity  inferior  to  Chartres,  in  sublimity 
to  Beauvais,  and  in  decorative  splendour  to  Rheims,  and  in 
loveliness  of  figure  sculpture  to  Bourges.  It  has  nothing 
like  the  artful  pointing  and  moulding  of  the  arcades  of 
Salisbury  —  nothing  of  the  might  of  Durham  ;  no  Daedalian 
inlaying  like  Florence,  no  glow  of  mythic  fantasy  like 
Verona.  And  yet,  in  all,  and  more  than  these,  ways,  out- 
shone or  overpowered,  the  Cathedral  of  Amiens  deserves 
the  name  given  it  by  M.  Viollet  le  Due  — 

"  The  Parthenon  of  Gothic  Architecture."   .   .   . 

Whatever  you  wish  to  see,  or  are  forced  to  leave  unseen 
at  Amiens,  if  the  overwhelming   responsibilities    of  your 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    AMIENS.  235 

existence,  and  the  inevitable  necessities  of  precipitate  loco- 
motion in  their  fulfilment,  have  left  you  so  much  as  one 
quarter  of  an  hour,  not  out  of  breath  —  for  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  capital  of  Picardy,  give  it  wholly  to  the  cathe- 
dral choir.  Aisles  and  porches,  lancet  windows  and  roses, 
you  can  see  elsewhere  as  well  as  here  —  but  such  carpenter's 
work  you  cannot.  It  is  late,  —  fully  developed  flamboyant 
just  past  the  Fifteenth  Century  —  and  has  some  Flemish 
stolidity  mixed  with  the  playing  French  fire  of  it ;  but  wood- 
carving  was  the  Picard's  joy  from  his  youth  up,  and,  so  far 
as  I  know,  there  is  nothing  else  so  beautiful  cut  out  of  the 
goodly  trees  of  the  world. 

Sweet  and  young-grained  wood  it  is  :  oak,  trained  and 
chosen  for  such  work,  sound  now  as  four  hundred  years 
since.  Under  the  carver's  hand  it  seems  to  cut  like  clay, 
to  fold  like  silk,  to  grow  like  living  branches,  to  leap  like 
living  flame.  Canopy  crowning  canopy,  pinnacle  piercing 
pinnacle  —  it  shoots  and  wreathes  itself  into  an  enchanted 
glade,  inextricable,  imperishable,  fuller  of  leafage  than  any 
forest,  and  fuller  of  story  than  any  book.1 

1  Arnold  Boulin,  master-joiner  (menuisier)  at  Amiens,  solicited  the 
enterprise,  and  obtained  it  in  the  first  months  of  the  year  1508.  A 
contract  was  drawn  and  an  agreement  made  with  him  for  the  construc- 
tion of  one  hundred  and  twenty  stalls  with  historical  subjects,  high 
backings,  crownings,  and  pyramidal  canopies.  It  was  agreed  that  the 
principal  executor  should  have  seven  sous  of  Tournay  (a  little  less  than 
the  sou  of  France)  a  day,  for  himself  and  his  apprentice,  (threepence  a 
day  the  two  —  say  a  shilling  a  week  the  master,  and  sixpence  a  week 
the  man,)  and  for  the  superintendence  of  the  whole  work,  twelve 
crowns  a  year,  at  the  rate  of  twenty-four  sous  the  crown  ;  (i.  e.  twelve 
shillings  a  year).  The  salary  of  the  simple  workman  was  only  to  be 
three  sous  a  day.      For  the  sculptures  and  histories  of  the  seats,  the 


236  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    AMIENS. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  make  up  my  mind  which  was 
really  the  best  way  of  approaching  the  cathedral  for  the 
first  time.   .  .   . 

I  think  the  best  is  to  walk  from  the  Hotel  de  France 
or  the  Place  de  Perigord,  up  the  street  of  Three  Pebbles, 
towards  the  railway  station  —  stopping  a  little  as  you  go,  so 
as  to  get  into  a  cheerful  temper,  and  buying  some  bon-bons 
or  tarts  for  the  children  in  one  of  those  charming  patissier's 
shops  on  the  left.  Just  past  them,  ask  for  the  theatre;  and 
just  past  that,  you  will  find,  also  on  the  left,  three  open 
arches,  through  which  you  can  turn  passing  the  Palais  de 
Justice,  and  go  straight  up  to  the  south  transept,  which  has 
really  something  about  it  to  please  everybody.  It  is  simple 
and  severe  at  the  bottom,  and  daintily  traceried  and  pin- 
nacled at  the  top,  and  yet  seems  all  of  a  piece  —  though  it 
isn't — and  everybody  must  like  the  taper  and  transparent 
fret-work  of  the  jieche  above,  which  seems  to  bend  in  the 
west  wind,  —  though  it  does  n't  —  at  least,  the  bending  is  a 
long  habit,  gradually  yielded  into,  with  gaining  grace  and 
submissiveness,  during  the  last  three  hundred  years.  And 
coming  quite  up  to  the  porch,  everybody  must  like  the 
pretty  French  Madonna  in  the  middle  of  it,  with  her  head 
a  little  aside,  and  her  nimbus  switched  a  little  aside  too,  like 
a  becoming  bonnet.  A  Madonna  in  decadence  she  is, 
though,  for  all,  or  rather  by  reason  of  all,  her  prettiness  and 
her  gay  soubrette's  smile  ;   and   she  has  no  business  there, 

bargain  was  made  separately  with  Antoine  Avernier,  image  cutter, 
residing  at  Amiens,  at  the  rate  of  thirty-two  sous  (sixteen  pence),  the 
piece.  Most  of  the  wood  came  from  Clermont  en  Beauvoisis,  near 
Amiens  ;  the  finest,  for  the  bas-reliefs  from  Holland,  by  St.  Valery 
and  Abbeville. 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    AMIENS.  237 

neither,  for  this  is  Saint  Honore's  porch,  not  her's ;  and  grim 
and  grey  Saint  Honore  used  to  stand  there  to  receive  you, — 
he  is  banished  now  to  the  north  porch  where  nobody  ever 
goes  in.  This  was  done  long  ago  in  the  Fourteenth  Cen- 
tury days  when  the  people  first  began  to  find  Christianity 
too  serious,  and  devised  a  merrier  faith  for  France,  and 
would  have  bright  glancing  soubrette  Madonnas  everywhere, 
letting  their  own  dark-eyed  Joan  of  Arc  be  burnt  for  a 
witch.  And  thenceforward  things  went  their  merry  way, 
straight  on,  $a  allait,  fa  ira  to  the  merriest  days  of  the 
guillotine. 

But  they  could  still  carve  in  the  Fourteenth  Century  and 
the  Madonna  and  her  hawthorn-blossom  lintel  are  worth 
your  looking  at,  —  much  more  the  field  above,  of  sculpture 
as  delicate  and  more  calm,  which  tells  you  Saint  Honore's 
own  story,  little  talked  of  now  in  his  Parisian  faubourg.   .   .   . 

A  Gothic  cathedral  has,  almost  always,  these  five  great 
entrances ;  which  may  be  easily,  if  at  first  attentively, 
recognized  under  the  titles  of  the  Central  door  (or  porch), 
the  Northern  door,  the  Southern  door,  the  North  door,  and 
the  South  door.  But  when  we  use  the  terms  right  and  left, 
we  ought  always  to  use  them  as  in  going  out  of  the  cathedral, 
or  walking  down  the  nave,  —  the  entire  north  side  and  aisles 
of  the  building  being  its  right  side,  and  the  south  its  left, — 
these  terms  being  only  used  well  and  authoritatively,  when 
they  have  reference  either  to  the  image  of  Christ  on  the 
apse  or  on  the  rood,  or  else  to  the  central  statue,  whether 
of  Christ,  the  Virgin,  or  a  saint  in  the  west  front.  At 
Amiens,  this  central  statue,  on  the  "  trumeau  "  or  supporting 
and  dividing  pillar  of  the  central  porch,  is  of  Christ  Im- 


238  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    AMIENS. 

manuel,  —  God  with  us.  On  His  right  hand  and  His  left, 
occupying  the  entire  walls  of  the  central  porch,  are  the 
apostles  and  the  four  greater  prophets.  The  twelve  minor 
prophets  stand  side  by  side  on  the  front,  three  on  each  of  its 
great  piers. 

The  northern  porch  is  dedicated  to  St.  Firman,  the  first 
Christian  missionary  to  Amiens. 

The  southern  porch  to  the  Virgin. 

But  these  are  both  treated  as  withdrawn  behind  the  great 
foundation  of  Christ  and  the  Prophets  ;  and  their  narrow 
recesses  partly  conceal  their  sculpture  until  you  enter  them. 
What  you  have  first  to  think  of,  and  read,  is  the  scripture 
of  the  great  central  porch  and  the  facade  itself. 

You  have  then  in  the  centre  of  the  front,  the  image  of 
Christ  Himself,  receiving  you :  "  I  am  the  Way,  the  truth 
and  the  life."  And  the  order  of  the  attendant  powers  may 
be  best  understood  by  thinking  of  them  as  placed  on  Christ's 
right  and  left  hand  :  this  being  also  the  order  which  the 
builder  adopts  in  his  Scripture  history  on  the  facade  —  so 
that  it  is  to  be  read  from  left  to  right  — i.  e.  from  Christ's 
left  to  Christ's  right,  as  He  sees  it.  Thus,  therefore, 
following  the  order  of  the  great  statues  :  first  in  the  central 
porch,  there  are  six  apostles  on  Christ's  right  hand,  and 
six  on  His  left.  On  His  left  hand,  next  Him,  Peter;  then 
in  receding  order,  Andrew,  James,  John,  Matthew,  Simon; 
on  His  right  hand,  next  Him,  Paul ;  and  in  receding  order, 
James  the  Bishop,  Philip,  Bartholomew,  Thomas,  and  Jude. 
These  opposite  ranks  of  the  Apostles  occupy  what  may  be 
called  the  apse  or  curved  bay  of  the  porch,  and  form  a 
nearly  semicircular  group,  clearly  visible  as  we  approach. 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    AMIENS.  239 

But  on  the  sides  of  the  porch,  outside  the  lines  of  apostles, 
and  not  clearly  seen  till  we  enter  the  porch  are  the  four 
greater  prophets.  On  Christ's  left,  Isaiah  and  Jeremiah,  on 
His  right,  Ezekiel  and  Daniel. 

Then  in  front,  along  the  whole  facade  —  read  in  order 
from  Christ's  left  to  His  right  —  come  the  series  of  the 
twelve  minor  prophets,  three  to  each  of  the  four  piers  of  the 
temple,  beginning  at  the  south  angle  with  Hosea,  and 
ending  with  Malachi. 

As  you  look  full  at  the  facade  in  front,  the  statues  which 
fill  the  minor  porches  are  either  obscured  in  their  narrower 
recesses  or  withdrawn  behind  each  other  so  as  to  be  unseen. 
And  the  entire  mass  of  the  front  is  seen,  literally,  as  built  on 
the  foundation  of  the  Apostles  and  Prophets,  Jesus  Christ 
Himself  being  the  chief  corner-stone.  Literally  that;  for 
the  receding  Porch  is  a  deep  "  angulus  "  and  its  mid-pillar  is 
the  "  Head  of  the  Corner." 

Built  on  the  foundation  of  the  Apostles  and  Prophets,  that 
is  to  say  of  the  Prophets  who  foretold  Christ,  and  the 
Apostles  who  declared  Him.  Though  Moses  was  an 
Apostle  of  God,  he  is  not  here  —  though  Elijah  was  a 
Prophet  of  God,  he  is  not  here.  The  voice  of  the  entire 
building  is  that  of  the  Heaven  at  the  Transfiguration. 
"  This  is  my  beloved  Son,  hear  ye  Him." 

There  is  yet  another  and  a  greater  prophet  still,  who,  as  it 
seems  at  first,  is  not  here.  Shall  the  people  enter  the  gates 
of  the  temple,  singing  "  Hosanna  to  the  Son  of  David;  " 
and  see  no  image  of  his  father,  then?  —  Christ  Himself 
declare,  "  I  am  the  root  and  offspring  of  David ;  "  and  yet 
the  Root  have  no  sign  near  it  of  its  Earth  ? 


24O  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    AMIENS. 

Not  so.  David  and  his  Son  are  together.  David  is  the 
pedestal  of  the  Christ. 

We  will  begin  our  examination  of  the  Temple  front, 
therefore  with  this  goodly  pedestal  stone.  The  statue  of 
David  is  only  two-thirds  life-size,  occupying  the  niche  in 
front  of  the  pedestal.  He  holds  his  sceptre  in  his  right 
hand,  the  scroll  in  his  left.  King  and  Prophet,  type  of  all 
Divinely  right  doing,  and  right  claiming,  and  right  proclaim- 
ing, kinghood  forever. 

The  pedestal  of  which  this  statue  forms  the  fronting  or 
western  sculpture,  is  square,  and  on  the  two  sides  of  it  are 
two  flowers  in  vases,  on  its  north  side  the  lily,  and  on  its 
south  the  rose.  And  the  entire  monolith  is  one  of  the 
noblest  pieces  of  Christian  sculpture  in  the  world. 

Above  this  pedestal  comes  a  minor  one,  bearing  in  front 
of  it  a  tendril  of  vine,  which  completes  the  floral  symbolism 
of  the  whole.  The  plant  which  I  have  called  a  lily  is  not 
the  Fleur  de  Lys,  nor  the  Madonna's,  but  an  ideal  one  with 
bells  like  the  crown  Imperial  (Shakespeare's  type  of  "  lilies 
of  all  kinds  "),  representing  the  mode  of  growth  of  the  lily  of 
the  valley,  which  could  not  be  sculptured  so  large  in  its 
literal  form  without  appearing  monstrous,  and  is  exactly 
expressed  in  this  tablet  —  as  it  fulfils,  together  with  the 
rose  and  vine,  its  companions,  the  triple  saying  of  Christ, 
"  I  am  the  Rose  of  Sharon,  and  the  Lily  of  the  Valley." 
"  I  am  the  true  Vine." 

On  the  side  of  the  upper  stone  are  supporters  of  a 
different  character.  Supporters,  —  not  captives  nor  victims  ; 
the  Cockatrice  and  Adder.  Representing  the  most  active 
evil  principles  of  the  earth,  as  in  their  utmost  malignity  j 


THE    CATHEDRAL,    OF    AMIENS.  241 

still  Pedestals  of  Christ,  and  even  in  their  deadly  life,  ac- 
complishing His  final  will. 

Both  creatures  are  represented  accurately  in  the  mediaeval 
traditional  form,  the  cockatrice  half  dragon,  half  cock ;  the 
deaf  adder  laying  one  ear  against  the  ground  and  stopping 
the  other  with  her  tail. 

The  first  represents  the  infidelity  of  Pride.  The  cockatrice 
—  king  serpent  or  highest  serpent  —  saying  that  he  is  God, 
and  will  be  God. 

The  second,  the  infidelity  of  Death.  The  adder  (nieder 
or  nether  snake)  saying  that  he  is  mud  and  will  be  mud. 

Lastly,  and  above  all,  set  under  the  feet  of  the  statue  of 
Christ  Himself,  are  the  lion  and  dragon;  the  images  of 
Carnal  sin,  or  Human  sin,  as  distinguished  from  the  Spir- 
itual and  Intellectual  sin  of  Pride,  by  which  the  angels 
also  fell. 

The  Bible  of  Amiens  {Our  Fathers  Have  Told   Us),  (Sunny side, 
Orpington,  Kent,  1884). 


THE   MOSQUE   OF   SANTA   SOFIA, 

EDMONDO   DE  AMICIS. 

THE  external  aspect  has  nothing  worthy  of  note.  The 
only  objects  that  attract  the  eye  are  the  four  high 
white  minarets  that  rise  at  the  four  corners  of  the  edifice, 
upon  pedestals  as  big  as  houses.  The  famous  cupola  looks 
small.  It  appears  impossible  that  it  can  be  the  same  dome 
that  swells  into  the  blue  air,  like  the  head  of  a  Titan,  and 
is  seen  from  Pera,  from  the  Bosphorus,  from  the  Sea  of 
Marmora,  and  from  the  hills  of  Asia.  It  is  a  flattened 
dome,  flanked  by  two  half  domes,  covered  with  lead,  and 
perforated  with  a  wreath  of  windows,  supported  upon  four 
walls  painted  in  stripes  of  pink  and  white,  sustained  in  their 
turn  by  enormous  bastions,  around  which  rise  confusedly 
a  number  of  small  mean  buildings,  baths,  schools,  mauso- 
leums, hospitals,  etc.,  which  hide  the  architectural  forms 
of  the  basilica.  You  see  nothing  but  a  heavy,  irregular 
mass,  of  a  faded  colour,  naked  as  a  fortress,  and  not  to  all 
appearance  large  enough  to  hold  within  it  the  immense 
nave  of  Santa  Sofia's  church.  Of  the  ancient  basilica 
nothing  is  really  visible  but  the  dome,  which  has  lost  the 
silvery  splendour  that  once  made  it  visible,  according  to 
the  Greeks,  from  the  summit  of  Olympus.  All  the  rest 
is  Mussulman.     One  summit  was  built  by  Mahomet  the 


THE    MOSQUE    OF    SANTA    SOFIA.  243 

Conqueror,  one  by  Selim  II.,  the  other  two  by  Amurath  III. 
Of  the  same  Amurath  are  the  buttresses  built  at  the  end 
of  the  Sixteenth  Century  to  support  the  walls  shaken  by 
an  earthquake,  and  the  enormous  crescent  in  bronze 
planted  upon  the  top  of  the  dome,  of  which  the  gilding 
alone  cost  fifty  thousand  ducats. 

On  every  side  the  mosque  overwhelms  and  masks  the 
church,  of  which  the  head  only  is  free,  though  over  that 
also  the  four  imperial  minarets  keep  watch  and  ward,,  On 
the  eastern  side  there  is  a  door  ornamented  by  six  columns 
of  porphyry  and  marble ;  at  the  southern  side  another  door 
by  which  you  enter  a  court,  surrounded  by  low,  irregular 
buildings,  in  the  midst  of  which  bubbles  a  fountain  for 
ablution,  covered  by  an  arched  roof  with  eight  columns. 
Looked  at  from  without,  Santa  Sofia  can  scarcely  be 
distinguished  from  the  other  mosques  of  Stamboul,  unless 
by  its  inferior  lightness  and  whiteness  ;  much  less  would 
it  pass  for  the  "  greatest  temple  in  the  world  after  Saint 
Peter's."   .   .   . 

Between  the  four  enormous  pilasters  which  form  a 
square  in  the  middle  of  the  basilica,  rise,  to  the  right  and 
left  as  you  enter,  eight  marvellous  columns  of  green  breccia 
from  which  spring  the  most  graceful  arches,  sculptured 
with  foliage,  forming  an  elegant  portico  on  either  side 
of  the  nave,  and  sustaining  at  a  great  height  two  vast 
galleries,  which  present  two  more  ranges  of  columns  and 
sculptured  arches.  A  third  gallery  which  communicates 
with  the  two  first,  runs  along  the  entire  side  where  the 
entrance  is,  and  opens  upon  the  nave  with  three  great 
arches,  sustained  by  twin  columns.      Other  minor  galleries, 


244  THE    MOSQUE    OF    SANTA    SOFIA. 

supported   by    porphyry   columns,   cross    the   four  temples 
posted    at    the   extremity    of   the   nave    and    sustain  other 
columns    bearing    tribunes.     This    is    the    basilica.     The 
mosque   is,  as  it  were,  planted  in  its  bosom  and  attached 
to   its  walls.      The    Mirab,  or  niche  which   indicates   the 
direction    of  Mecca,    is  cut  in   one  of  the   pilasters  of  the 
apse.     To   the  right    of  it  and    high  up    is  hung  one  of 
the  four  carpets  which  Mahomet  used  in  prayer.     Upon 
the  corner  of  the  apse,  nearest  the  Mirab,  at  the  top  of  a 
very   steep   little   staircase,  flanked   by    two  balustrades  of 
marble   sculptured   with   exquisite   delicacy,  under  an  odd 
conical  roof,  between  two  triumphal  standards  of  Mahomet 
Second,  is  the  pulpit  where  the  Ratib  goes  up  to  read  the 
Koran,  with  a  drawn  scimetar  in  his  hand,  to  indicate  that 
Santa  Sofia  is  a  mosque  acquired  by  conquest.      Opposite 
the  pulpit  is  the  tribune  of  the  Sultan,  closed  with  a  gilded 
lattice.     Other  pulpits  or  platforms,  furnished  with  balus- 
trades sculptured  in  open  work,  and  ornamented  with  small 
marble   columns   and    arabesque    arches,   extend   here    and 
there  along  the  walls,  or  project  towards  the  centre  of  the 
nave.     To   the  right  and    left   of  the    entrance,  are  two 
enormous  alabaster  urns,  brought  from  the  ruins  of  Per- 
gamo,   by   Amurath   III.     Upon   the  pilasters,  at   a  great 
height  are  suspended  immense  green  disks,  with  inscrip- 
tions   from    the    Koran    in   letters  of  gold.     Underneath, 
attached   to   the   walls,   are  large   cartouches   of  porphyry 
inscribed  with  the  names  of  Allah,  Mahomet,  and  the  first 
four   Caliphs.     In  the  angles  formed  by  the  four  arches 
that  sustain  the  cupola,  may  still  be  seen  the  gigantic  wings 
of  four  mosaic  cherubim,   whose  faces  are  concealed   by 


THE    MOSQUE    OF    SANTA    SOFIA.  245 

gilded  rosettes.  From  the  vaults  of  the  domes  depend 
innumerable  thick  silken  cords,  to  which  are  attached 
ostrich  eggs,  bronze  lamps,  and  globes  of  crystal.  Here 
and  there  are  seen  lecterns,  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl  and 
copper,  with  manuscript  Korans  upon  them.  The  pave- 
ment is  covered  with  carpets  and  mats.  The  walls  are 
bare,  whitish,  yellowish,  or  dark  grey,  still  ornamented  here 
and  there  with  faded  mosaics.  The  general  aspect  is 
gloomy  and  sad. 

The  chief  marvel  of  the  mosque  is  the  great  dome. 
Looked  at  from  the  nave  below,  it  seems  indeed,  as 
Madame  de  Stael  said  of  the  dome  of  Saint  Peter's,  like  an 
abyss  suspended  over  one's  head.  It  is  immensely  high, 
has  an  enormous  circumference,  and  its  depth  is  only  one- 
sixth  of  its  diameter;  which  makes  it  appear  still  larger. 
At  its  base  a  gallery  encircles  it,  and  above  the  gallery 
there  is  a  row  of  forty  arched  windows.  In  the  top  is 
written  the  sentence  pronounced  by  Mahomet  Second,  as 
he  sat  on  his  horse  in  front  of  the  high  altar  on  the  day 
of  the  taking  of  Constantinople :  "  Allah  is  the  light  of 
heaven  and  of  earth  ; "  and  some  of  the  letters,  which  are 
white  upon  a  black  ground,  are  nine  yards  long.  As  every 
one  knows,  this  aerial  prodigy  could  not  be  constructed 
with  the  usual  materials ;  and  it  was  built  of  pumice-stone 
that  floats  on  water,  and  with  bricks  from  the  island  of 
Rhodes,  five  of  which  scarcely  weigh  as  much  as  one 
ordinary  brick.   .  .  . 

When  you  have  visited  the  nave  and  the  dome,  you 
have  only  begun  to  see  Santa  Sofia.  For  example,  who- 
ever has  a  shade  of  historic  curiosity  may  dedicate  an  hour 


246  THE    MOSQUE    OF    SANTA    SOFIA. 

to  the  columns.  Here  are  the  spoils  of  all  the  temples  in 
the  world.  The  columns  of  green  breccia  which  support 
the  two  great  galleries,  were  presented  to  Justinian  by  the 
magistrates  of  Ephesus,  and  belonged  to  the  Temple  of 
Diana  that  was  burned  by  Erostratus.  The  eight  porphyry 
columns  that  stand  two  and  two  between  the  pilasters 
belonged  to  the  Temple  of  the  Sun  built  by  Aurelian  at 
Balbek.  Other  columns  are  from  the  Temple  of  Jove  at 
Cizicum,  from  the  Temple  of  Helios  of  Palmyra,  from 
the  temples  of  Thebes,  Athens,  Rome,  the  Troad,  the 
Ciclades,  and  from  Alexandria ;  and  they  present  an  infinite 
variety  of  sizes  and  colours.  Among  the  columns,  the 
balustrades,  the  pedestals,  and  the  slabs  which  remain  of 
the  ancient  lining  of  the  walls,  may  be  seen  marbles  from 
all  the  ruins  of  the  Archipelago;  from  Asia  Minor,  from 
Africa  and  from  Gaul.  The  marble  of  the  Bosphorus, 
white  spotted  with  black,  contrasts  with  the  black  Celtic 
marble  veined  with  white;  the  green  marble  of  Laconia 
is  reflected  in  the  azure  marble  of  Lybia ;  the  speckled 
porphyry  of  Egypt,  the  starred  granite  of  Thessaly,  the  red 
and  white  striped  stone  of  Jassy,  mingle  their  colours  with 
the  purple  of  the  Phrygian  marble,  the  rose  of  that  of 
Synada,  the  gold  of  the  marble  of  Mauritania,  and  the 
snow  of  the  marble  of  Paros.   .    .   . 

From  above  can  be  embraced  at  once  with  the  eye  and 
mind  all  the  life  of  the  mosque.  There  are  to  be  seen 
Turks  on  their  knees,  with  their  foreheads  touching  the 
pavement ;  others  erect  like  statues  with  their  hands  before 
their  faces,  as  if  they  were  studying  the  lines  in  their 
palms  ;  some  seated  cross-legged  at  the  base  of  columns, 


THE    MOSQUE    OF    SANTA    SOFIA.  247 

as  if  they  were  reposing  under  the  shadow  of  trees ;  a 
veiled  woman  on  her  knees  in  a  solitary  corner  j  old  men 
seated  before  the  lecterns,  reading  the  Koran  ;  an  imaum 
hearing  a  group  of  boys  reciting  sacred  verses  \  and  here 
and  there,  under  the  distant  arcades  and  in  the  galleries, 
imaum,  ratib,  muezzin,  servants  of  the  mosque  in  strange 
costumes,  coming  and  going  silently  as  if  they  did  not 
touch  the  pavement.  The  vague  harmony  formed  by  the 
low,  monotonous  voices  of  those  reading  or  praying,  those 
thousand  strange  lamps,  that  clear  and  equal  light,  that 
deserted  apse,  those  vast  silent  galleries,  that  immensity, 
those  memories,  that  peace,  leave  in  the  soul  an  impression 
of  mystery  and  grandeur  which  words  cannot  express,  nor 
time  efface. 

Constantinople  (London,  1878,  translation  by  C.  Tilton). 


9— Vol.  3 


I 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 
ARTHUR  PENRHYN   STANLEY. 

T  is  said  that  the  line  in   Heber's  "  Palestine "  which 
describes  the  rise  of  Solomon's  temple  originally  ran  — 

"Like  the  green  grass,  the  noiseless  fabric  grew;" 


and  that,  at  Sir  Walter  Scott's  suggestion,  it  was  altered  to 
its  present  form  — 

"  Like  some  tall  palm,  the  noiseless  fabric  sprung.'" 

Whether  we  adopt  the  humbler  or  the  grander  image,  the 
comparison  of  the  growth  of  a  fine  building  to  that  of  a 
natural  product  is  full  of  instruction.  But  the  growth  of 
an  historical  edifice  like  Westminster  Abbey  needs  a  more 
complex  figure  to  do  justice  to  its  formation :  a  venerable 
oak,  with  gnarled  and  hollow  trunk,  and  spreading  roots, 
and  decaying  bark,  and  twisted  branches,  and  green  shoots ; 
or  a  coral  reef  extending  itself  with  constantly  new  accre- 
tions, creek  after  creek,  and  islet  after  islet.  One  after 
another,  a  fresh  nucleus  of  life  is  formed,  a  new  combina- 
tion produced,  a  larger  ramification  thrown  out.  In  this 
respect  Westminster  Abbey  stands  alone  amongst  the 
edifices  of  the  world.  There  are,  it  may  be,  some  which 
surpass  it  in  beauty  or  grandeur  j  there  are  others,  certainly, 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  249 

which  surpass  it  in  depth  and  sublimity  of  association ;  but 
there  is  none  which  has  been  entwined  by  so  many  con- 
tinuous threads  with  the  history  of  a  whole  nation.   .   .   . 

If  the  original  foundation  of  the  Abbey  can  be  traced 
back  to  Sebert,  the  name,  probably,  must  have  been  given 
in  recollection  of  the  great  Roman  sanctuary,  whence 
Augustine,  the  first  missionary,  had  come.  And  Sebert 
was  believed  to  have  dedicated  his  church  to  St.  Peter  in 
the  Isle  of  Thorns,  in  order  to  balance  the  compliment  he 
had  paid  to  St.  Paul  on  Ludgate  Hiil :  a  reappearance, 
in  another  form,  of  the  counterbalancing  claims  of  the  rights 
of  Diana  and  Apollo — the  earliest  stage  of  that  rivalry 
which  afterwards  expressed  itself  in  the  proverb  of  "  rob- 
bing Peter  to  pay  Paul." 

This  thin  thread  of  tradition,  which  connected  the  ruinous 
pile  in  the  river-island  with  the  Roman  reminiscences  of 
Augustine,  was  twisted  firm  and  fast  round  the  resolve  of 
Edward ;  and  by  the  concentration  of  his  mind  on  this 
one  subject  was  raised  the  first  distinct  idea  of  an  Abbey, 
which  the  Kings  of  England  should  regard  as  their  peculiar 
treasure.   .   .   . 

The  Abbey  had  been  fifteen  years  in  building.  The 
King  had  spent  upon  it  one-tenth  of  the  property  of  the 
kingdom.  It  was  to  be  a  marvel  of  its  kind.  As  in  its 
origin  it  bore  the  traces  of  the  fantastic  childish  character 
of  the  King  and  of  the  age,  in  its  architecture  it  bore 
the  stamp  of  the  peculiar  position  which  Edward  occu- 
pied in  English  history  between  Saxon  and  Norman.  By 
birth  he  was  a  Saxon,  but  in  all  else  he  was  a  foreigner. 
Accordingly,    the    Church    at    Westminster    was    a    wide 


250  WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

sweeping  innovation  on  all  that  had  been  seen  before. 
"  Destroying  the  old  building,"  he  says  in  his  Charter,  "  I 
have  built  up  a  new  one  from  the  very  foundation."  Its 
fame  as  "  a  new  style  of  composition "  lingered  in  the 
minds  of  men  for  generations.  It  was  the  first  cruciform 
church  in  England,  from  which  all  the  rest  of  like  shape 
were  copied  —  an  expression  of  the  increasing  hold  which 
the  idea  of  the  Crucifixion  in  the  Tenth  Century  had  laid 
on  the  imagination  of  Europe.  Its  massive  roof  and  pillars 
formed  a  contrast  with  the  rude  rafters  and  beams  of  the 
common  Saxon  churches.  Its  very  size  —  occupying,  as 
it  did,  almost  the  whole  area  of  the  present  building  —  was 
in  itself  portentous.  The  deep  foundations,  of  large  square 
blocks  of  grey  stone,  were  duly  laid.  The  east  end  was 
rounded  into  an  apse.  A  tower  rose  in  the  centre  crowned 
by  a  cupola  of  wood.  At  the  western  end  were  erected 
two  smaller  towers,  with  five  large  bells.  The  hard  strong 
stones  were  richly  sculptured.  The  windows  were  filled 
with  stained  glass.  The  roof  was  covered  with  lead.  The 
cloisters,  chapter-house,  refectory,  dormitory,  the  infirmary, 
with  its  spacious  chapel,  if  not  completed  by  Edward,  were 
all  begun,  and  finished  in  the  next  generation  on  the  same 
plan.  This  structure,  venerable  as  it  would  be  if  it  had 
lasted  to  our  time,  has  almost  entirely  vanished.  Possibly 
one  vast  dark  arch  in  the  southern  transept — certainly  the 
substructures  of  the  dormitory,  with  their  huge  pillars, 
"  grand  and  regal  at  the  bases  and  capitals  "  — the  massive 
low-browed  passage  leading  from  the  great  cloister  to  Little 
Dean's  Yard  —  and  some  portions  of  the  refectory  and  of 
the    infirmary  chapel,  remain    as   specimens   of  the  work 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  25  I 

which  astonished  the  last  age  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  the 
first  age  of  the  Norman  monarchy.  .   .  . 

In  the  earliest  and  nearly  the  only  representation  which 
exists  of  the  Confessor's  building  —  that  in  the  Bayeux 
Tapestry  —  there  is  the  figure  of  a  man  on  the  roof,  with 
one  hand  resting  on  the  tower  of  the  Palace  of  West- 
minster, and  with  the  other  grasping  the  weathercock  of 
the  Abbey.  The  probable  intention  of  this  figure  is  to 
indicate  the  close  contiguity  of  the  two  buildings.  If  so, 
it  is  the  natural  architectural  expression  of  a  truth  valuable 
everywhere,  but  especially  dear  to  Englishmen.  The  close 
incorporation  of  the  Palace  and  the  Abbey  from  its  earliest 
days  is  a  likeness  of  the  whole  English  Constitution  —  a 
combination  of  things  sacred  and  things  common  —  a  union 
of  the  regal,  legal,  lay  element  of  the  nation  with  its  reli- 
gious, clerical,  ecclesiastical  tendencies,  such  as  can  be  found 
hardly  elsewhere  in  Christendom.  The  Abbey  is  secular 
because  it  is  sacred,  and  sacred  because  it  is  secular.  It  is 
secular  in  the  common  English  sense,  because  it  is  "  saccu- 
lar "  in  the  far  higher  French  and  Latin  sense  :  a  "  saecular  " 
edifice,  a  "saccular"  institution  —  an  edifice  and  an  insti- 
tution which  has  grown  with  the  growth  of  ages,  which  has 
been  furrowed  with  the  scars  and  cares  of  each  succeeding 
century. 

A  million  wrinkles  carve  its  skin ; 

A  thousand  winters  snow'd  upon  its  breast, 

From  cheek,  and  throat,  and  chin. 

The  vast  political  pageants  of  which  it  has  been  the  theatre, 
the  dust  of  the  most  worldly  laid  side  by  side  with  the  dust 
of  the  most  saintly,  the  wrangles  of  divines  or  statesmen 


552  WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

which  have  disturbed  its  sacred  peace,  the  clash  of  arms 
which  has  pursued  fugitive  warriors  and  princes  into  the 
shades  of  its  sanctuary  —  even  the  traces  of  Westminster 
boys  who  have  played  in  its  cloisters  and  inscribed  their 
names  on  its  walls  —  belong  to  the  story  of  the  Abbey  no 
less  than  its  venerable  beauty,  its  solemn  services,  and  its 
lofty  aspirations.   .   .   . 

The  Chapel  of  Henry  VII.  is  indeed  well  called  by  his 
name,  for  it  breathes  of  himself  through  every  part.  It  is 
the  most  signal  example  of  the  contrast  between  his  close- 
ness in  life,  and  his  "  magnificence  in  the  structures  he  had 
left  to  posterity  "  —  King's  College  Chapel,  the  Savoy, 
Westminster.  Its  very  style  was  believed  to  have  been  a 
reminiscence  of  his  exile,  being  "  learned  in  France,"  by 
himself  and  his  companion  Fox.  His  pride  in  its  grandeur 
was  commemorated  by  the  ship,  vast  for  those  times,  which 
he  built,  "  of  equal  cost  with  his  Chapel,"  "  which  after- 
wards, in  the  reign  of  Queen  Mary,  sank  in  the  sea  and 
vanished   in   a  moment." 

It  was  to  be  his  chantry  as  well  as  his  tomb,  for  he  was 
determined  not  to  be  behind  the  Lancastrian  princes  in 
devotion ;  and  this  unusual  anxiety  for  the  sake  of  a  soul 
not  too  heavenward  in  its  affections  expended  itself  in  the 
immense  apparatus  of  services  which  he  provided.  Almost 
a  second  Abbey  was  needed  to  contain  the  new  establish- 
ment of  monks,  who  were  to  sing  in  their  stalls  "  as  long 
as  the  world  shall  endure."  Almost  a  second  Shrine,  sur- 
rounded by  its  blazing  tapers,  and  shining  like  gold  with  its 
glittering  bronze,  was  to  contain  his  remains. 

To  the  Virgin  Mary,  to  whom  the  chapel  was  dedicated 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  253 

he  had  a  special  devotion.  Her  "  in  all  his  necessities  he 
had  made  his  continual  refuge;"  and  her  figure,  accordingly, 
looks  down  upon  his  grave  from  the  east  end,  between  the 
apostolic  patrons  of  the  Abbey,  Peter  and  Paul,  with  "  the 
holy  company  of  heaven  —  that  is  to  say,  angels,  arch- 
angels, patriarchs,  prophets,  apostles,  evangelists,  martyrs, 
confessors  and  virgins,"  to  "  whose  singular  mediation  and 
prayers  he  also  trusted,"  including  the  royal  saints  of 
Britain,  St.  Edward,  St.  Edmund,  St.  Oswald,  St.  Margaret 
of  Scotland,  who  stand,  as  he  directed,  sculptured,  tier  above 
tier,  on  every  side  of  the  Chapel ;  some  retained  from  the 
ancient  Lady  Chapel ;  the  greater  part  the  work  of  his  own 
acre.  Around  his  tomb  stand  his  "  accustomed  Avours  or 
guardian  saints"  to  whom  "he  calls  and  cries" — "St. 
Michael,  St.  John  the  Baptist,  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  St. 
George,  St.  Anthony,  St.  Edward,  St.  Vincent,  St.  Anne, 
St.  Mary  Magdalene,  and  St.  Barbara,"  each  with  their 
peculiar  emblems,  —  "so  to  aid,  succour,  and  defend  him, 
that  the  ancient  and  ghostly  enemy,  nor  none  other  evil  or 
damnable  spirit,  have  no  power  to  invade  him,  nor  with 
their  wickedness  to  annoy  him,  but  with  holy  prayers  to  be 
intercessors  to  his  Maker  and  Redeemer."  These  were 
the  adjurations  of  the  last  mediaeval  King,  as  the  Chapel 
was  the  climax  of  the  latest  mediaeval  architecture.  In 
the  very  urgency  of  the  King's  anxiety  for  the  perpetuity 
of  these  funeral  ceremonies,  we  seem  to  discern  an  uncon- 
scious presentiment  lest  their  days  were  numbered. 

But,  although  in  this  sense  the  Chapel  hangs  on  tena- 
ciously to  the  skirts  of  the  ancient  Abbey  and  the  ancient 
Church,  yet  that  solemn  architectural  pause  between  the 


254  WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

two  —  which  arrests  the  most  careless  observer,  and  renders 
it  a  separate  structure,  a  foundation  "  adjoining  the  Abbey  " 
rather  than  forming  part  of  it  —  corresponds  with  mar- 
vellous fidelity  to  the  pause  and  break  in  English  history 
of  which  Henry  VII. 's  reign  is  the  expression.  It  is  the 
close  of  the  Middle  Ages :  the  apple  of  Granada  in  its 
ornaments  shows  that  the  last  Crusade  was  over;  its  flow- 
ing draperies  and  classical  attitudes  indicate  that  the 
Renaissance  had  already  begun.  It  is  the  end  of  the 
Wars  of  the  Roses,  combining  Henry's  right  of  conquest 
with  his  fragile  claim  of  hereditary  descent.  On  the  one 
hand,  it  is  the  glorification  of  the  victory  of  Bosworth. 
The  angels,  at  the  four  corners  of  the  tomb,  held  or  hold 
the  likeness  of  the  crown  which  he  won  on  that  famous 
day.  In  the  stained-glass  we  see  the  same  crown  hanging 
on  the  green  bush  in  the  fields  of  Leicestershire.  On  the 
other  hand,  like  the  Chapel  of  King's  College  at  Cambridge, 
it  asserts  everywhere  the  memory  of  the  "  holy  Henry's 
shade";  the  Red  Rose  of  Lancaster  appears  in  every  pane 
of  glass  :  and  in  every  corner  is  the  Portcullis  —  the  "  Alters 
securitas,"  as  he  termed  it,  with  an  allusion  to  its  own 
meaning,  and  the  double  safeguard  of  his  succession  — 
which  he  derived  through  John  of  Gaunt  from  the  Beau- 
fort Castle  in  Anjou,  inherited  from  Blanche  of  Navarre 
by  Edmund  Crouchback ;  whilst  Edward  IV.  and  Eliza- 
beth of  York  are  commemorated  by  intertwining  these 
Lancastrian  symbols  with  the  Greyhound  of  Cecilia  Neville, 
wife  of  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  with  the  Rose  in  the 
Sun,  which  scattered  the  mists  at  Barnet,  and  the  Falcon 
on  the  Fetterlock,  by  which  the  first   Duke  of  York  ex- 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  255 

pressed  to  his  descendants  that  "  he  was  locked  up  from 
the  hope  of  the  kingdom,  but  advising  them  to  be  quiet 
and  silent,  as  God  knoweth  what  may  come  to  pass," 

It  is  also  the  revival  of  the  ancient,  Celtic,  British  ele- 
ment in  the  English  monarchy,  after  centuries  of  eclipse. 
It  is  a  strange  and  striking  thought,  as  we  mount  the 
steps  of  Henry  VII. 's  Chapel,  that  we  enter  there  a  mauso- 
leum of  princes,  whose  boast  it  was  to  be  descended,  not 
from  the  Confessor  or  the  Conqueror,  but  from  Arthur 
and  Llewellyn ;  and  that  round  about  the  tomb,  side  by 
side  with  the  emblems  of  the  great  English  Houses,  is  to 
be  seen  the  Red  Dragon  of  the  last  British  king,  Cad- 
wallader — "the  dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship  "  of 
Wales,  thrust  forward  by  the  Tudor  king  in  every  direc- 
tion, to  supplant  the  hated  White  Boar  of  his  departed 
enemy — the  fulfilment,  in  another  sense  than  the  old 
Welsh  bards  had  dreamt,  of  their  prediction  that  the 
progeny  of  Cadwallader  should  reign  again.   .   .   . 

We  have  seen  how,  by  a  gradual  but  certain  instinct, 
the  main  groups  have  formed  themselves  round  particular 
centres  of  death  :  how  the  Kings  ranged  themselves 
round  the  Confessor ;  how  the  Prince  and  Courtiers  clung 
to  the  skirts  of  Kings  ;  how  out  of  the  graves  of  the 
Courtiers  were  developed  the  graves  of  the  Heroes  ;  how 
Chatham  became  the  centre  of  the  Statesmen,  Chaucer  of 
the  Poets,  Purcell  of  the  Musicians,  Casaubon  of  the 
Scholars,  Newton  of  the  Men  of  Science  :  how,  even  in 
the  exceptional  details,  natural  affinities  may  be  traced ; 
how  Addison  was  buried  apart  from  his  brethren  in  letters, 
in  the  royal   shades  of  Henry  VII.'s   Chapel,  because  he 


256  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

clung  to  the  vault  of  his  own  loved  Montague  j  how 
Ussher  lay  beside  his  earliest  instructor,  Sir  James  Fuller- 
ton,  and  Garrick  at  the  foot  of  Shakespeare,  and  Spelman 
opposite  his  revered  Camden,  and  South  close  to  his 
master  Busby,  and  Stephenson  to  his  fellow-craftsman 
Telford,  and  Grattan  to  his  hero  Fox,  and  Macaulay  be- 
neath the  statue  of  his  favourite  Addison. 

These  special  attractions  towards  particular  graves  and 
monuments  may  interfere  with  the  general  uniformity  of 
the  Abbey,  but  they  make  us  feel  that  it  is  not  a  mere 
dead  museum,  that  its  cold  stones  are  warmed  with  the 
life-blood  of  human  affections  and  personal  partiality.  It 
is  said  that  the  celebrated  French  sculptor  of  the  monu- 
ment of  Peter  the  Great  at  St.  Petersburg,  after  showing 
its  superiority  in  detail  to  the  famous  equestrian  statue  of 
Marcus  Aurelius  at  Rome,  ended  by  the  candid  avowal, 
"  Et  cependant  cette  mauvaise  bete  est  vivante,  et  la  mienne  est 
morte."  Perhaps  we  may  be  allowed  to  reverse  the  saying, 
and  when  we  contrast  the  irregularities  of  Westminster 
Abbey  with  the  uniform  congruity  of  Salisbury  or  the 
Valhalla,  may  reflect,  "  Cette  belle  bete  est  morte,  mais  la 
mienne  est  vivante" 

Historical  Memorials  of  Westminster  Abbey  (London,  1866), 


THE   PARTHENON. 

JOHN   ADDINGTON    SYMONDS. 

FROM  whatever  point  the  plain  of  Athens  with  its 
semicircle  of  greater  and  lesser  hills  may  be  sur- 
veyed, it  always  presents  a  picture  of  dignified  and  lustrous 
beauty.  The  Acropolis  is  the  centre  of  this  landscape, 
splendid  as  a  work  of  art  with  its  crown  of  temples  ;  and 
the  sea,  surmounted  by  the  long  low  hills  of  the  Morea,  is 
the  boundary  to  which  the  eye  is  irresistibly  led.  Moun- 
tains and  islands  and  plain  alike  are  made  of  limestone, 
hardening  here  and  there  into  marble,  broken  into  delicate 
and  varied  forms,  and  sprinkled  with  a  vegetation  of  low 
shrubs  ?nd  brushwood  so  sparse  and  slight  that  the  naked 
rock  in  every  direction  meets  the  light.  This  rock  is 
grey  and  colourless ;  viewed  in  the  twilight  of  a  misty 
day,  it  shows  the  dull,  tame  uniformity  of  bone.  With- 
out the  sun  it  is  asleep  and  sorrowful.  But  by  reason  of 
this  very  deadness,  the  limestone  of  Athenian  landscape  is 
always  ready  to  take  the  colours  of  the  air  and  sun.  In 
noonday  it  smiles  with  silvery  lustre,  fold  upon  fold  of 
the  indented  hills  and  islands  melting  from  the  brightness 
of  the  sea  into  the  untempered  brilliance  of  the  sky.  At 
dawn  and  sunset  the  same  rocks  array  themselves  with 
a  celestial  robe  of  rainbow-woven  hues:  islands,  sea,  and 


258  THE    PARTHENON. 

mountains,  far  and  near,  burn  with  saffron,  violet,  and 
rose,  with  the  tints  of  beryl  and  topaz,  sapphire  and 
almandine  and  amethyst,  each  in  due  order  and  at  proper 
distances.  The  fabled  dolphin  in  its  death  could  not  have 
showed  a  more  brilliant  succession  of  splendours  waning 
into  splendours  through  the  whole  chord  of  prismatic 
colours.  This  sensitiveness  of  the  Attic  limestone  to 
every  modification  of  the  sky's  light  gives  a  peculiar 
spirituality  to  the  landscape.   .   .  . 

Seen  from  a  distance,  the  Acropolis  presents  nearly  the 
same  appearance  as  it  offered  to  Spartan  guardsmen  when 
they  paced  the  ramparts  of  Deceleia.  Nature  around  is 
unaltered.  Except  that  more  villages,  enclosed  with  olive- 
groves  and  vineyards,  were  sprinkled  over  those  bare  hills 
in  classic  days,  no  essential  change  in  the  landscape  has 
taken  place,  no  transformation,  for  example,  of  equal 
magnitude  with  that  which  converted  the  Campagna  of 
Rome  from  a  plain  of  cities  to  a  poisonous  solitude.  All 
through  the  centuries  which  divide  us  from  the  age  of 
Hadrian  —  centuries  unfilled,  as  far  as  Athens  is  concerned, 
with  memorable  deeds  or  national  activity  —  the  Acropolis 
has  stood  uncovered  to  the  sun.  The  tones  of  the  marble 
of  Pentelicus  have  daily  grown  more  golden ;  decay  has 
here  and  there  invaded  frieze  and  capital;  war  too  has 
done  its  work,  shattering  the  Parthenon  in  1687  by  the 
explosion  of  a  powder-magazine,  and  the  Propylaea  in 
1656  by  a  similar  accident,  and  seaming  the  colonnades 
that  still  remain  with  cannon-balls  in  1827.  Yet  in  spite 
of  time  and  violence  the  Acropolis  survives,  a  miracle  of 
beauty  :  like  an  everlasting  flower,  through  all  that  lapse 


THE    PARTHENON.  259 

of  years  it  has  spread  its  coronal  of  marbles  to  the  air, 
unheeded.  And  now,  more  than  ever,  its  temples  seem 
to  be  incorporate  with  the  rock  they  crown.  The  slabs 
of  column  and  basement  have  grown  together  by  long 
pressure  or  molecular  adhesion  into  a  coherent  whole. 
Nor  have  weeds  or  creeping  ivy  invaded  the  glittering 
fragments  that  strew  the  sacred  hill.  The  sun's  kiss  alone 
has  caused  a  change  from  white  to  amber-hued  or  russet. 
Meanwhile,  the  exquisite  adaptation  of  Greek  building  to 
Greek  landscape  has  been  enhanced  rather  than  impaired 
by  that  "  unimaginable  touch  of  time,"  which  has  broken 
the  regularity  of  outline,  softened  the  chisel-work  of  the 
sculptor,  and  confounded  the  painter's  fretwork  in  one 
tint  of  glowing  gold.  The  Parthenon,  the  Erechtheum, 
and  the  Propylaea  have  become  one  with  the  hill  on  which 
they  cluster,  as  needful  to  the  scenery  around  them  as  the 
everlasting  mountains,  as  sympathetic  as  the  rest  of  nature 
to  the  successions  of  morning  and  evening,  which  waken 
them  to  passionate  life  by  the  magic  touch  of  colour.  .  .  . 
In  like  manner,  when  moonlight,  falling  aslant  upon 
the  Propylaea,  restores  the  marble  masonry  to  its  original 
whiteness,  and  the  shattered  heaps  of  ruined  colonnades 
are  veiled  in  shadow,  and  every  form  seems  larger,  grander, 
and  more  perfect  than  by  day,  it  is  well  to  sit  on  the 
lowest  steps,  and  looking  upwards,  to  remember  what 
processions  passed  along  this  way  bearing  the  sacred 
peplus  to  Athene.  The  Panathenaic  pomp,  which  Pheidias 
and  his  pupils  carved  upon  the  friezes  of  the  Parthenon, 
took  place  once  in  five  years,  on  one  of  the  last  days  of 
July.     All  the  citizens  joined  in  the  honour  paid  to  their 


26o  THE    PARTHENON. 

patroness.  Old  men  bearing  olive  branches,  young  men 
clothed  in  bronze,  chapleted  youths  singing  the  praise  of 
Pallas  in  prosodial  hymns,  maidens  carrying  holy  vessels, 
aliens  bending  beneath  the  weight  of  urns,  servants  of  the 
temple  leading  oxen  crowned  with  fillets,  troops  of  horsemen 
reining  in  impetuous  steeds :  all  these  pass  before  us  in 
the  frieze  of  Pheidias.  But  to  our  imagination  must  be 
left  what  he  has  refrained  from  sculpturing,  the  chariot 
formed  like  a  ship,  in  which  the  most  illustrious  nobles 
of  Athens  sat,  splendidly  arrayed,  beneath  the  crocus- 
coloured  curtain  or  peplus  outspread  upon  a  mast.  Some 
concealed  machinery  caused  this  car  to  move  ;  but  whether 
it  passed  through  the  Propylaea,  and  entered  the  Acropolis, 
admits  of  doubt.  It  is,  however,  certain  that  the  proces- 
sion which  ascended  those  steep  slabs,  and  before  whom 
the  vast  gates  of  the  Propylaea  swang  open  with  the 
clangour  of  resounding  bronze,  included  not  only  the 
citizens  of  Athens  and  their  attendant  aliens,  but  also 
troops  of  cavalry  and  chariots  ;  for  the  mark  of  chariot- 
wheels  can  still  be  traced  upon  the  rock.  The  ascent  is 
so  abrupt  that  this  multitude  moved  but  slowly.  Splen- 
did indeed,  beyond  any  pomp  of  modern  ceremonial,  must 
have  been  the  spectacle  of  the  well-ordered  procession, 
advancing  through  those  giant  colonnades  to  the  sound  of 
flutes  and  solemn  chants  —  the  shrill  clear  voices  of  boys 
in  antiphonal  chorus  rising  above  the  confused  murmurs 
of  such  a  crowd,  the  chafing  of  horses'  hoofs  upon  the 
stone,  and  the  lowing  of  bewildered  oxen.  To  realise 
by  fancy  the  many-coloured  radiance  of  the  temples,  and 
the  rich  dresses  of  the  votaries  illuminated  by  that  sharp 


THE    PARTHENON.  26l 

light  of  a  Greek  sun,  which  defines  outline  and  shadow 
and  gives  value  to  the  faintest  hue,  would  be  impossible. 
All  we  can  know  for  positive  about  the  chromatic  decora- 
tion of  the  Greeks  is,  that  whiteness  artificially  subdued 
to  the  tone  of  ivory  prevailed  throughout  the  stonework 
of  the  buildings,  while  blue  and  red  and  green  in  distinct, 
yet  interwoven  patterns,  added  richness  to  the  fretwork 
and  the  sculpture  of  pediment  and  frieze.  The  sacra- 
mental robes  of  the  worshippers  accorded  doubtless  with 
this  harmony,  wherein  colour  was  subordinate  to  light,  and 
light  was  toned   to  softness. 

Musing    thus   upon   the  staircase  of   the    Propylaea,   we 
may  say  with  truth   that   all  our  modern   art   is  but  child's 
play   to  that   of  the   Greeks.     Very   soul-subduing   is  the 
gloom   of  a  cathedral    like   the   Milanese    Duomo,   when 
the  incense  rises  in  blue  clouds  athwart  the  bands  of  sun- 
light falling  from  the  dome,  and  the  crying  of  choirs  up- 
borne on   the  wings  of  organ  music  fills  the  whole  vast 
space  with   a   mystery    of  melody.      Yet    such   ceremonial 
pomps  as  this  are  but   as   dreams  and  shapes  of  visions, 
when   compared   with   the   clearly  defined   splendours  of  a 
Greek    procession    through    marble    peristyles   in   open   air 
beneath   the  sun  and   sky.     That   spectacle  combined  the 
harmonies  of  perfect  human  forms  in  movement  with  the 
divine  shapes  of  statues,  the  radiance  of  carefully  selected 
vestments  with  hues  inwrought  upon   pure  marble.     The 
rhythms  and  melodies  of  the  Doric  mood  were  sympathetic 
to  the  proportions  of  the   Doric  colonnades.      The  grove 
of  pillars  through   which   the   pageant    passed  grew    from 
the  living  rock   into   shapes  of  beauty,   fulfilling    by  the 


262  THE    PARTHENON. 

inbreathed  spirit  of  man  Nature's  blind  yearning  after 
absolute  completion.  The  sun  himself —  not  thwarted 
by  artificial  gloom,  or  tricked  with  alien  colours  of  stained 
glass  —  was  made  to  minister  in  all  his  strength  to  a  pomp, 
the  pride  of  which  was  a  display  of  form  in  manifold 
magnificence.  The  ritual  of  the  Greeks  was  the  ritual 
of  a  race  at  one  with  Nature,  glorying  in  its  affiliation  to 
the  mighty  mother  of  all  life,  and  striving  to  add  by  human 
art  the  coping-stone  and  final  touch  to  her  achievement. 

Sketches  in  Italy  and  Greece  (London,  1874). 


THE   CATHEDRAL   OF   ROUEN. 

THOMAS   FROGNALL   DIBDIN. 

THE  approach  to  Rouen  is  indeed  magnificent.  I 
speak  of  the  immediate  approach ;  after  you  reach 
the  top  of  a  considerable  rise,  and  are  stopped  by  the  barriers, 
you  then  look  down  a  straight,  broad,  and  strongly  paved 
road,  lined  with  a  double  row  of  trees  on  each  side.  As  the 
foliage  was  not  thickly  set,  we  could  discern,  through  the 
delicately  clothed  branches  the  tapering  spire  of  the  Cathedral 
and  the  more  picturesque  tower  of  the  Abbaye  St.  Ouen 
—  with  hanging  gardens  and  white  houses  to  the  left  — 
covering  a  richly  cultivated  ridge  of  hills,  which  sink  as  it 
were  into  the  Boulevards  and  which  is  called  the  Faubourg 
Cauchoise.  To  the  right,  through  the  trees,  you  see  the 
river  Seine  (here  of  no  despicable  depth  or  breadth)  covered 
with  boats  and  vessels  in  motion  :  the  voice  of  commerce 
and  the  stir  of  industry  cheering  and  animating  you  as  you 
approach  the  town.  I  was  told  that  almost  every  vessel 
which  I  saw  (some  of  them  two  hundred  and  even  of  three 
hundred  tons  burthen)  was  filled  with  brandy  and  wine. 
The  lamps  are  suspended  from  the  centre  of  long  ropes, 
across  the  road  ;  and  the  whole  scene  is  of  a  truly  novel  and 
imposing  character.  But  how  shall  I  convey  to  you  an 
idea  of  what  I  experienced,  as,  turning  to  the    left,  ani4 


264       THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  ROUEN. 

leaving  the  broader  streets  which  flank  the  quay,  I  began  to 
enter  the  penetralia  of  this  truly  antiquated  town  ?  What 
narrow  streets,  what  overhanging  houses,  what  bizarre, 
capricious  ornaments !  What  a  mixture  of  modern  with 
ancient  art !  What  fragments,  or  rather  what  ruins  of  old 
delicately-built  Gothic  churches  !  What  signs  of  former 
and  of  modern  devastation  !  What  fountains,  gutters,  groups 
of  never-ceasing  men,  women  and  children,  all  occupied, 
and  all  apparently  happy  !  The  Rue  de  la  Grosse  Horloge 
(so  called  from  a  huge,  clumsy,  antiquated  clock  which 
goes  across  it)  struck  me  as  being  not  among  the  least 
singular  streets  of  Rouen.  In  five  minutes  I  was  within 
the  court-yard  of  the  Hotel  Vatel,  the  favourite  residence  of 
the  English. 

It  was  evening  when  I  arrived  in  company  with  three 
Englishmen.  We  were  soon  saluted  by  the  laquais  de  place 
—  the  leech-like  hangers-on  of  every  hotel  —  who  begged 
to  know  if  we  would  walk  upon  the  Boulevards.  We 
consented;  turned  to  the  right;  and,  gradually  rising  gained 
a  considerable  eminence.  Again  we  turned  to  the  right, 
walking  upon  a  raised  promenade ;  while  the  blossoms  of 
the  pear  and  apple  trees,  within  a  hundred  walled  gardens, 
perfumed  the  air  with  a  delicious  fragrance.  As  we  con- 
tinued our  route  along  the  Boulevard  Beauvoisine,  we  gained 
one  of  the  most  interesting  and  commanding  views  imagin- 
able of  the  city  of  Rouen  — just  at  that  moment  lighted  up 
by  the  golden  rays  of  a  glorious  sun-set  —  which  gave  a 
breadth  and  a  mellower  tone  to  the  shadows  upon  the 
Cathedral  and  the   Abbey  of  Saint   Ouen.   .   .   . 

I  have  now  made  myself  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the 


THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    ROUEN.  265 

geography  of  Rouen.  How  shall  I  convey  to  you  a  sum- 
mary, and  yet  a  satisfactory  description  of  it  ?  It  cannot 
be  done.  You  love  old  churches,  old  books,  and  relics  of 
ancient  art.  These  be  my  themes,  therefore:  so  fancy 
yourself  either  strolling  leisurely  with  me,  arm  in  arm,  in 
the  streets —  or  sitting  at  my  elbow.  First  for  the  Cathedral : 
—  for  whar  traveller  of  taste  does  not  doff  his  bonnet  to 
the  Mother*  Church  of  the  town  through  which  he  happens 
to  be  travelling  —  or  in  which  he  takes  up  a  temporary 
abode  ?  The  west  front,  always  the  forte  of  the  architect's 
skill,  strikes  you  as  you  go  down,  or  come  up,  the  principal 
street  —  La  Rue  des  Calmes,  —  which  seems  to  bisect  the 
town  into  two  equal  parts.  A  small  open  space  (which, 
however  has  been  miserably  encroached  upon  by  petty 
shops)  called  the  Flower-garden,  is  before  this  western  front ; 
so  that  it  has  some  little  breathing  room  in  which  to  expand 
its  beauties  to  the  wondering  eyes  of  the  beholder.  In  my 
poor  judgment,  this  western  front  has  very  few  elevations 
comparable  with  it  —  including  even  those  of  Lincoln  and 
York.  The  ornaments,  especially  upon  three  porches, 
between  the  two  towers,  are  numerous,  rich,  and  for  the 
greater  part  entire  :  —  in  spite  of  the  Calvinists,  *  the 
French  Revolution,  and  time.  Among  the  lower  and 
smaller   basso-relievos   upon   these  porches   is   the   subject 

1  The  ravages  committed  by  the  Calvinists  throughout  nearly  the 
whole  of  the  towns  of  Normandy,  and  especially  in  the  Cathedrals 
towards  the  year  1560,  afford  a  melancholy  proof  of  the  effects  of 
religious  animosity.  But  the  Calvinists  were  bitter  and  ferocious  per- 
secutors. Pommeraye  in  his  quarto  volume  Histoire  de  TEglise 
Cathedrale  de  Rouen  (1686)  has  devoted  nearly  one  hundred  pages  to 
an  account  of  Calvinistic  depredations. 


266  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    ROUEN. 

of  the  daughter  of  Herodias  dancing  before  Herod.  She  is 
manceuvering  on  her  hands,  her  feet  being  upwards.  To 
the  right,  the  decapitation  of  Saint  John  is  taking  place. 

The  southern  transept  makes  amends  for  the  defects  of 
the  northern.  The  space  before  it  is  devoted  to  a  sort  of 
vegetable  market :  curious  old  houses  encircle  this  space : 
and  the  ascent  to  the  door,  but  more  especially  the  curiously 
sculptured  porch  itself,  with  the  open  spaces  in  the  upper 
part  —  light,  fanciful  and  striking  to  a  degree  —  produce  an 
effect  as  pleasing  as  it  is  extraordinary.  Add  to  this  the 
ever-restless  feet  of  devotees,  going  in  and  coming  out,  the 
worn  pavement,  and  the  frittered  ornaments,  in  consequence 
—  seem  to  convince  you  that  the  ardour  and  activity  cf 
devotion  is  almost   equal  to  that  of  business. 

As  you  enter  the  Cathedral,  at  the  centre  door,  by 
descending  two  steps,  you  are  struck  with  the  length  and 
loftiness  of  the  nave,  and  with  the  lightness  of  the  gallery 
which  runs  along  the  upper  part  of  it.  Perhaps  the  nave 
is  too  narrow  for  its  length.  The  lantern  of  the  central 
large  tower  is  beautifully  light  and  striking.  It  is  supported 
by  four  massive  clustered  pillars,  about  forty  feet  in  circum- 
ference j 1  but  on  casting  your  eye  downwards,  you  are 
shocked  at  the  tasteless  division  of  the  choir  from  the  nave 
by  what  is  called  a  Grecian  screen :  and  the  interior  of  the 
transepts  has  undergone  a  like  preposterous  restoration. 
The  rose  windows  of  the  transepts,  and  that  at  the  west 
end  of  the  nave,  merit  your  attention  and  commendation, 
I  could  not  avoid  noticing  to  the  right,  upon  entrance,  per- 
haps the  oldest  side  chapel  in  the  Cathedral :  of  a  date,  little 

1  M.  Licquet  says  each  clustered  pillar  contains  thirty-one  columns. 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  ROUEN.        267 

less  ancient  than  that  of  the  northern  tower,  and  perhaps  of 
the  end  of  the  Twelfth  Century.      It  contains  by  much  the 
finest  specimens  of  stained  glass  —  of  the  early  part  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century.     There  is  also  some  beautiful  stained 
glass  on  each  side  of  the  Chapel  of  the  Virgin,  behind  the 
choir ;  but  although  very  ancient,  it  is  the  less  interesting, 
as  not  being  composed  of  groups,  or  of  historical  subjects. 
Yet,  in  this,  as  in  almost   all   the  churches  which  I  have 
seen,  frightful   devastations   have   been    made    among   the 
stained-glass  windows  by  the  fury  of  the  Revolutionists.  .  .  . 
As  you  approach  the  Chapel  of  the  Virgin,  you  pass  by 
an  ancient  monument,  to  the  left,  of  a  recumbent  Bishop, 
reposing  behind  a  thin  pillar,  within   a  pretty  ornamented 
Gothic  arch.     To  the  eye  of  a  tasteful  antiquary  this  can- 
not fail  to  have  its  due  attraction.     While,  however,  we  are 
treading  upon   hallowed  ground,  rendered  if  possible  more 
sacred  by  the    ashes  of  the   illustrious   dead,  let  us   move 
gently  onwards  towards  the   Chapel  of  the  Virgin,  behind 
the  choir.      See,  what  bold  and  brilliant  monumental  figures 
are  yonder  to  the  right  of  the  altar !      How  gracefully  they 
kneel  and  how  devoutly  they  pray  !      They  are  the  figures 
of  the  Cardinals  D'Amboise  —  uncle  and  nephew  :  —  the 
former  minister  of  Louis  XII.  and  (what  does  not  neces- 
sarily follow,  but  what  gives  him  as  high  a  claim  upon  the 
gratitude  of  posterity)   the   restorer  and   beautifier  of  the 
glorious  building  in  which  you  are  contemplating  his  figure. 
This   splendid   monument   is    entirely   of  black  and  white 
marble,  of  the  early  part  of  the  Sixteenth  Century.      The 
figures  just  mentioned  are  of  white  marble,  kneeling  upon 
cushions,  beneath  a  rich  canopy  of  Gothic  fret-work.  .  .  . 


268  THE    CATHEDRAL    OF    ROUEN. 

The  south-west  tower  remains,  and  the  upper  part  of  the 

central  tower,  with  the  whole  of  the  lofty  wooden  spire  : 

the  fruits  of  the  liberality  of  the  excellent  men  of  whom 
such  honourable  mention  has  been  made.  Considering  that 
this  spire  is  very  lofty,  and  composed  of  wood,  it  is  surprising 
that  it  has  not  been  destroyed  by  tempest  or  by  lightning.1 
The  taste  of  it  is  rather  capricious  than  beautiful.   .   .   . 

Leaving  the  Cathedral,  you  pass  a  beautifully  sculptured 
fountain  (of  the  early  time  of  Francis  I.)  which  stands  at 
the  corner  of  a  street,  to  the  right  ;  and  which,  from  its 
central  situation,  is  visited  the  live-long  day  for  the  sake  of 
its  limpid  waters. 

A  Bibliographical,  Antiquarian,  and  Picturesque  Tour  in  France 
and  Germany  (London,  1829). 

1  Within  three  years  of  writing  it,  the  spire  was  consumed  by 
lightning.  The  newspapers  of  both  France  and  England  were  full  of 
this  melancholy  event;  and  in  the  year  1823  M.  Hyacinthe  Langlois 
of  Rouen,  published  an  account  of  it,  together  with  some  views  of  the 
progress  of  the  burning. 


THE   CASTLE   OF   HEIDELBERG. 

VICTOR   HUGO. 

THERE  is  every  style  in  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg.  It 
is  one  of  those  buildings  where  are  accumulated  and 
mingled  beauties  which  elsewhere  are  scattered.  It  has 
some  notched  towers  like  Pierrefonds,  some  jewelled  facades 
like  Anet,  some  fosse-walls  fallen  into  the  moat  in  a  single 
piece  like  Rheinfels,  some  large  sorrowful  fountains,  moss- 
grown  and  ready  to  fall,  like  the  Villa  Pamfili,  some  regal 
chimney-pieces  filled  with  briers  and  brambles,  —  the 
grandeur  of  Tancarville,  the  grace  of  Chambord,  the  terror 
of  Chillon.   .   .   . 

If  you  turn  towards  the  Palace  of  Frederick  IV.  you 
have  before  you  the  two  high,  triangular  pediments  of  this 
dark  and  bristling  facade,  the  greatly  projecting  entablatures, 
where,  between  four  rows  of  windows,  are  sculptured  with 
the  most  spirited  chisel,  nine  Palatines,  two  Kings,  and  five 
Emperors. 

On  the  right  you  have  the  beautiful  Italian  front  of 
Otho-Heinrich  with  its  divinities,  its  chimeras,  and  its 
nymphs  who  live  and  breathe  velveted  by  the  soft  shadows, 
with  its  Roman  Caesars,  its  Grecian  demi-gods,  its  Hebraic 
heroes,  and  its  porch  which  was  sculptured  by  Ariosto. 
On  the  left  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Gothic  front  of 


270       THE  CASTLE  OF  HEIDELBERG. 

Louis  the  Bearded,  as  savagely  dug  out  and  creviced  as  if 
gored  by  the  horns  of  a  gigantic  bull.  Behind  you,  under 
the  arches  of  a  porch,  which  shelters  a  half-filled  well,  you 
see  four  columns  of  grey  granite,  presented  by  the  Pope 
to  the  great  Emperor  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  which  in  the 
Eighth  Century  went  to  Ravenna  on  the  border  of  the 
Rhine,  in  the  Fifteenth,  from  the  borders  of  the  Rhine  to 
the  borders  of  the  Neckar,  and  which,  after  having  wit- 
nessed the  fall  of  Charlemagne's  Palace  at  Ingelheim,  have 
watched  the  crumbling  of  the  Palatines'  Castle  at  Heidel- 
berg. All  the  pavement  of  the  court  is  covered  with  ruins 
of  flights  of  steps,  dried-up  fountains,  and  broken  basins. 
Everywhere  the  stones  are  cracked  and  nettles  have  broken 
through. 

The  two  facades  of  the  Renaissance  which  give  such  an 
air  of  splendour  to  this  court  are  of  red  sandstone  and  the 
statues  which  decorate  them  are  of  white  sandstone,  an 
admirable  combination  which  proves  that  the  great  sculptors 
were  also  great  colourists.  Time  has  rusted  the  red  sand- 
stone and  given  a  golden  tinge  to  the  white.  Of  these  two 
facades  one,  that  of  Frederick  IV.,  is  very  severe  ;  the  other, 
that  of  Otho  Heinrich,  is  entirely  charming.  The  first  is 
historical,  the  second  is  fabulous.  Charlemagne  dominates 
the  one,  Jupiter  dominates  the  other. 

The  more  you  regard  these  two  Palaces  in  juxtaposition 
and  the  more  you  study  their  marvellous  details,  the  more 
sadness  gains  upon  you.  Strange  destiny  for  masterpieces 
of  marble  and  stone  !  An  ignorant  visitor  mutilates  them, 
an  absurd  cannon-ball  annihilates  them,  and  they  were  not 
mere  artists   but  kings  who  made  them.     Nobody   knows 


THE   CASTLE  OF   HEIDELBERG.  2"Jl 

to-day  the  names  of  those  divine  men  who  built  and 
sculptured  the  walls  of  Heidelberg.  There  is  renown  there 
for  ten  great  artists  who  hover  nameless  above  this  illus- 
trious ruin.  An  unknown  Boccador  planned  this  Palace 
of  Frederick  IV.  ;  an  ignored  Primaticcio  composed  the 
facade  of  Otho-Heinrich  ;  a  Caesar  Caesarino,  lost  in  the 
shadows,  designed  the  pure  arches  to  the  equilateral  triangle 
of  Louis  V.'s  mansion.  Here  are  arabesques  of  Raphael, 
and  here  are  figurines  of  Benvenuto.  Darkness  shrouds 
everything.  Soon  these  marble  poems  will  perish,  —  their 
poets   have  already   died. 

For  what  did  these  wonderful  men  work  ?  Alas !  for 
the  sighing  wind,  for  the  thrusting  grass,  for  the  ivy  which 
has  come  to  compare  its  foliage  with  theirs,  for  the  tran- 
sient swallow,  for  the  falling  rain,  and  for  the  enshrouding 
night. 

One  singular  thing  here  is  that  the  three  or  four  bom- 
bardments to  which  these  two  facades  have  been  subjected 
have  not  treated  them  in  the  same  way.  Only  the  cornice 
and  the  architraves  of  Otho-Heinrich's  Palace  have  been 
damaged.  The  immortal  Olympians  who  dwell  there 
have  not  suffered.  Neither  Hercules,  nor  Minerva,  nor 
Hebe  has  been  touched.  The  cannon-balls  and  shells 
crossed  each  other  here  without  harming  these  invulnerable 
statues.  On  the  other  hand,  the  sixteen  crowned  knights, 
who  have  heads  of  lions  on  the  grenouillieres  of  their 
armour  and  who  have  such  valiant  countenances,  on  the 
Palace  of  Frederick  IV.  have  been  treated  by  the  bombs  as 
if  they  had  been  living  warriors.  Nearly  every  one  of 
them  has  been  wounded.     The  face  of  the  Emperor  Otho 


272       THE  CASTLE  OF  HEIDELBERG. 

has  been  covered  with  scars;  Otho,  King  of  Hungary, 
has  had  his  left  leg  fractured  ;  Otho-Heinrich,  the  Palatine, 
has  lost  his  hand;  a  ball  has  disfigured  Frederick  the  Pious; 
an  explosion  has  cut  Frederick  II.  in  half  and  broken  Jean 
Casimir's  loins.  In  the  assaults  which  were  levelled  at  the 
highest  row,  Charlemagne  has  lost  his  globe  and  in  the 
lower  one  Frederick  IV.   has  lost  his  sceptre. 

However,  nothing  could  be  more  superb  than  this  legion 
of  princes  all  mutilated  and  all  standing.  The  anger  of 
Leopold  II.  and  of  Louis  XIV.,  the  thunder  —  the  anger 
of  the  sky,  and  the  anger  of  the  French  Revolution  —  the 
anger  of  the  people,  have  vainly  assailed  them  ;  they  all 
stand  there  defending  their  facade  with  their  fists  on  their 
hips,  with  their  legs  outstretched,  with  firmly  planted  heel 
and  defiant  head.  The  Lion  of  Bavaria  is  proudly  scowl- 
ing under  their  feet.  On  the  second  row  beneath  a  green 
bough,  which  has  pierced  through  architrave  and  which  is 
gracefully  playing  with  the  stone  feathers  of  his  casque, 
Frederick  the  Victorious  is  half  drawing  his  sword.  The 
sculptor  has  put  into  his  face  an  indescribable  expression 
of  Ajax  challenging  Jupiter  and  Nimrod  shooting  his  arrow 
at  Jehovah.  These  two  Palaces  of  Otho-Heinrich  and 
Frederick  IV.  must  have  offered  a  superb  sight  when  seen 
in  the  light  of  that  bombardment  on  the  fatal  night  of 
May   21,   1693.   •   •  • 

To-day  the  Tower  of  Frederick  the  Victorious  is  called 
the  Blown-up  Tower. 

Half  of  this  colossal  cylinder  of  masonry  lies  in  the 
moat.  Other  cracked  blocks  detached  from  the  top  of 
the  tower  would  have  fallen  long  ago  if  the  monster-trees 


THE   CASTLE  OF   HEIDELBERG.  2/3 

had  not  seized  them  in  their  powerful  claws  and  held  them 
suspended  above  the  abyss. 

A  few  steps  from  this  terrible  ruin  chance  has  made  a 
ruin  of  ravishing  beauty ;  this  is  the  interior  of  Otho- 
Heinrich's  Palace,  of  which  until  now  I  have  only  described 
the  facade.  There  it  stands  open  to  everybody  under  the 
sunshine  and  the  rain,  the  snow  and  the  wind,  without  a 
ceiling,  without  a  canopy,  and  without  a  roof,  whose  dis- 
mantled walls  are  pierced  as  if  by  hazard  with  twelve 
Renaissance  doors,  —  twelve  jewels  of  orfevrerie,  twelve 
chefs  d'aeuvre,  twelve  idyls  in  stone  —  entwined  as  if  they 
issued  from  the  same  roots,  a  wonderful  and  charming 
forest  of  wild  flowers,  worthy  of  the  Palatines,  consule 
digna.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  this  mixture  of  art  and 
reality  is  indescribable ;  it  is  at  once  a  contest  and  a  har- 
mony. Nature,  who  has  a  rival  in  Beethoven,  finds  also  a 
rival  in  Jean  Goujon.  The  arabesques  form  tendrils  and 
the  tendrils  form  arabesques.  One  does  not  know  which 
to  admire  most,  the  living  or  the  sculptured  leaf. 

This  ruin  appears  to  be  filled  with  a  divine  order. 

It  seems  to  me  that  this  Palace,  built  by  the  fairies  of 
the  Renaissance,  is  now  in  its  natural  state.  All  these 
marvellous  fantasies  of  free  and  savage  art  would  be  out 
of  harmony  in  these  halls  when  treaties  of  peace  or  war 
were  signed  here,  when  grave  princes  dreamed  here,  and 
when  queens  were  married  and  German  emperors  created 
here.  Could  these  Vertumnuses,  Pomonas,  or  Ganymedes 
have  understood  anything  about  the  ideas  that  came  into 
the  heads  of  Frederick  IV.  or  Frederick  V.,  by  the  grace 
of  God  Count  Palatine  of  the  Rhine,  Vicar  of  the  Holy 


274  THE   CASTLE   OF   HEIDELBERG. 

Roman  Empire,  Elector  and  Duke  of  Upper  and  Lower 
Bavaria  r  A  grand  seigneur  slept  in  this  chamber  beside 
a  king's  daughter,  under  a  ducal  baldaquin  ;  now  there  is 
neither  seigneur,  king's  daughter,  baldaquin,  nor  even  ceil- 
ing to  this  chamber;  it  is  now  the  home  of  the  bind-weed, 
and  the  wild  mint  is  its  perfume.  It  is  well.  It  is  better 
thus.  This  adorable  sculpture  was  made  to  be  kissed  by 
the  flowers  and  looked  upon  by  the  stars.   .   .   . 

The  night  had  fallen,  the  clouds  were  spread  over  the  sky, 
and  the  moon  had  mounted  nearly  to  the  zenith,  while  I 
was  still  sitting  on  the  same  stone,  gazing  into  the  darkness 
which  had  gathered  around  me  and  into  the  shadows  which 
I  had  within  me.  Suddenly  the  town-clock  far  below  me 
sounded  the  hour;  it  was  midnight  :  I  rose  and  descended. 
The  road  leading  to  Heidelberg  passes  the  ruins.  At  the 
moment  when  I  arrived  before  them,  the  moon,  veiled  by 
the  diffused  clouds  and  surrounded  by  an  immense  halo, 
threw  a  weird  light  upon  this  magnificent  mass  of  mouldering 
ruins.   .   .  . 

The  ruin,  always  open,  is  deserted  at  this  hour.  The 
idea  of  entering  it  possessed  me.  The  two  stone  giants, 
who  guard  the  stone  court,  allowed  me  to  pass.  I  crossed 
the  dark  porch,  upon  which  the  iron  portcullis  still  hangs, 
and  entered  the  court.  The  moon  had  almost  disappeared 
beneath  the  clouds.  There  was  only  a  pallid  light  in  the 
sky. 

Nothing  is  grander  than  that  which  has  fallen.  This 
ruin,  illuminated  in  such  a  way,  at  such  an  hour,  was  inde- 
scribably sad,  gentle,  and  majestic.  I  fancied  that  in  the 
scarcely  perceptible  rustling  of  the  trees  and  foliage  there 


THE   CASTLE   OF   HEIDELBERG.  2/5 

was  something  grave  and  respectful.  I  heard  no  footstep, 
no  voice,  no  breath.  In  the  court  there  was  neither  light, 
nor  shadow ;  a  sort  of  dreamful  twilight  outlined  everything 
and  veiled  everything.  The  confused  gaps  and  rifts  allowed 
the  feeble  rays  of  moonlight  to  penetrate  the  most  remote 
corners  ;  and  in  the  black  depths  of  the  inaccessible  arches 
and  corridors,  I  saw  white  figures,  slowly  gliding. 

It  was  the  hour  when  the  facades  of  old  abandoned  build- 
ings are  no  longer  facades,  but  faces.  I  walked  over  the 
uneven  pavement  without  daring  to  make  any  noise,  and  I 
experienced  between  the  four  walls  of  this  enclosure  that 
strange  disquietude,  that  undefined  sentiment  which  the 
ancients  called  "  the  horror  of  the  sacred  woods."  There 
is  a  kind  of  insurmountable  terror  in  the  sinister  mingled 
with  the  superb. 

However,  I  climbed  up  the  green  and  damp  steps  of  the  old 
stairway  without  rails  and  entered  the  old  roofless  dwelling 
of  Otho-Heinrich.  Perhaps  you  will  laugh  ;  but  I  assure 
you  that  to  walk  at  night  through  chambers  which  have  been 
inhabited  by  people,  whose  doors  are  dismantled,  whose 
apartments  each  have  their  peculiar  signification,  saying  to 
yourself:  "Here  is  the  dining-room,  here  is  the  bed-room, 
here  is  the  alcove,  here  is  the  mantel-piece,  —  and  to  feel 
the  grass  under  your  feet  and  to  see  the  sky  above  your 
head,  is  terrifying.  A  room  which  has  still  the  form  of  a 
room  and  whose  ceiling  has  been  lifted  off,  as  it  were  like 
the  lid  of  a  box,  becomes  a  mournful  and  nameless  thing. 
It  is  not  a  house,  it  is  not  a  tomb.  In  a  tomb  you  feel  the 
soul  of  a  man  ;   in  this  place  you  feel  his  shadow. 

As  soon  as  I  passed  the  Knights'  Hall  I  stopped.      Here 


276       THE  CASTLE  OF  HEIDELBERG. 

there  was  a  singular  noise,  the  more  distinct  because  a  sepul- 
chral silence  rilled  the  rest  of  the  ruin.  It  was  a  weak,  pro- 
longed, strident  rattle,  mingled  at  moments  with  a  little,  dry 
and  rapid  hammering,  which  at  times  seemed  to  come  from 
the  depths  of  the  darkness,  from  a  far-away  copse,  or  the 
edifice  itself;  at  times,  from  beneath  my  feet  between  the 
rifts  in  the  pavement.  Whence  came  this  noise  ?  Of 
what  nocturnal  creature  was  it  the  cry,  or  the  knocking  ? 
I  am  not  acquainted  with  it,  but  as  I  listen  to  it,  I  cannot  help 
thinking  of  that  hideous,  legendary  spinner  who  weaves  rope 
for  the  gibbet. 

However,  nothing,  nobody,  not  a  living  person  is  here. 
This  hall,  like  the  rest  of  the  Palace,  is  deserted.  I  struck 
the  pavement  with  my  cane,  the  noise  ceased,  only  to  begin 
again  a  moment  afterwards.  I  knocked  again,  it  ceased, 
then  it  began  again.  Yet  I  saw  nothing  but  a  large  frightened 
bat,  which  the  blow  of  my  cane  on  the  stones  had  scared 
from  one  of  the  sculptured  corbels  of  the  wall,  and  which 
circled  around  my  head  in  that  funereal  flight  which  seems 
to  have  been  made  for  the  interior  of  ruined  towers.   .   .   . 

At  the  moment  I  descended  the  flight  of  stairs  the  moon 
shone  forth,  large  and  brilliant,  from  a  rift  in  the  clouds ; 
the  Palace  of  Frederick  IV.,  with  its  double  pediment, 
suddenly  appeared,  magnificent  and  clear  as  daylight  with 
its  sixteen  pale  and  formidable  giants;  while,  at  my  right, 
Otho's  facade,  a  black  silhouette  against  the  luminous  sky, 
allowed  a  few  dazzling  rays  of  moonlight  to  escape  through 
its  twenty-four  windows. 

I  said  clear  as  daylight  —  I  am  wrong.  The  moon  upon 
ruins  is  more  than  a  light,  —  it  is  a  harmony.     It  hides  no 


THE   CASTLE   OF   HEIDELBERG.  277 

detail,  it  exaggerates  no  wounds,  it  throws  a  veil  on  broken 
objects  and  adds  an  indescribable,  misty  aureole  of  majesty 
to  ancient  buildings.  It  is  better  to  see  a  palace,  or  an  old 
cloister,  at  night  than  in  the  day.  The  hard  brilliancy  of 
the  sunlight  is  severe  upon  the  ruins  and  intensifies  the 
sadness  of  the  statues.    .   .  . 

I  went  out  of  the  Palace  through  the  garden,  and,  descend- 
ing, I  stopped  once  more  for  a  moment  on  one  of  the  lower 
terraces.  Behind  me  the  ruin,  hiding  the  moon,  made,  half 
down  the  slope,  a  large  mass  of  shadow,  where  in  all  directions 
were  thrown  out  long,  dark  lines,  and  long,  luminous  lines, 
which  striped  the  vague  and  misty  background  of  the  land- 
scape. Below  me  lay  drowsy  Heidelberg,  stretched  out  at 
the  bottom  of  the  valley,  the  length  of  the  mountain;  all 
the  lights  were  out ;  all  the  doors  were  shut ;  below  Heidel- 
berg I  heard  the  murmur  of  the  Neckar,  which  seemed  to 
be  whispering  to  the  hill  and  valley  ;  and  the  thoughts  which 
filled  me  all  the  evening,  —  the  nothingness  of  man  in  the 
Past,  the  infirmity  of  man  in  the  Present,  the  grandeur  of 
Nature,  and  the  eternity  of  God,  —  came  to  me  altogether, 
in  a  triple  figure,  whilst  I  descended  with  slow  steps  into 
the  darkness  between  this  river  awake  and  living,  this 
sleeping  town,  and  this  dead  Palace. 

Le  Rhin  (Paris,  1 842). 


THE   DUCAL   PALACE. 

JOHN    RUSKIN. 

THE  charm  which  Venice  still  possesses,  and  which 
for  the  last  fifty  years  has  rendered  it  the  favourite 
haunt  of  all  the  painters  of  picturesque  subject,  is  owing 
to  the  effect  of  the  palaces  belonging  to  the  period  we 
have  now  to  examine,  mingled  with  those  of  the 
Renaissance. 

The  effect  is  produced  in  two  different  ways.  The 
Renaissance  palaces  are  not  more  picturesque  in  themselves 
than  the  club-houses  of  Pall  Mall ;  but  they  become 
delightful  by  the  contrast  of  their  severity  and  refinement 
with  the  rich  and  rude  confusion  of  the  sea  life  beneath 
them,  and  of  their  white  and  solid  masonry  with  the 
green  waves.  Remove  from  beneath  them  the  orange 
sails  of  the  fishing  boats,  the  black  gliding  of  the  gondolas, 
the  cumbered  decks  and  rough  crews  of  the  barges  of 
traffic,  and  the  fretfulness  of  the  green  water  along  their 
foundations,  and  the  Renaissance  palaces  possess  no  more 
interest  than  those  of  London  or  Paris.  But  the  Gothic 
palaces  are  picturesque  in  themselves,  and  wield  over  us 
an  independent  power.  Sea  and  sky,  and  every  other 
accessory  might  be  taken  away  from  them,  and  still  they 
would  be  beautiful  and  strange.     They  are  not  less  strik- 


THE   DUCAL   PALACE.  279 

ing  in  the  loneliest  streets  of  Padua  and  Vicenza  (where 
many  were  built  during  the  period  of  the  Venetian  au- 
thority in  those  cities)  than  in  the  most  crowded  thorough- 
fares of  Venice  itself;  and  if  they  could  be  transported 
into  the  midst  of  London,  they  would  still  not  altogether 
lose  their  power  over  the  feelings. 

The  best  proof  of  this  is  in  the  perpetual  attractiveness 
of  all  pictures,  however  poor  in  skill,  which  have  taken 
for  their  subject  the  principal  of  these  Gothic  buildings, 
the  Ducal  Palace.  In  spite  of  all  architectural  theories 
and  teachings,  the  paintings  of  this  building  are  always 
felt  to  be  delightful ;  we  cannot  be  wearied  by  them, 
though  often  sorely  tried ;  but  we  are  not  put  to  the  same 
trial  in  the  case  of  the  palaces  of  the  Renaissance.  They 
are  never  drawn  singly,  or  as  the  principal  subject,  nor 
can  they  be.  The  building  which  faces  the  Ducal  Palace 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Piazzetta  is  celebrated  among 
architects,  but  it  is  not  familiar  to  our  eyes  ;  it  is  painted 
only  incidentally,  for  the  completion,  not  the  subject,  of 
a  Venetian  scene;  and  even  the  Renaissance  arcades  of 
St.  Mark's  Place,  though  frequently  painted,  are  always 
treated  as  a  mere  avenue  to  its  Byzantine  church  and 
colossal  tower.  And  the  Ducal  Palace  itself  owes  the 
peculiar  charm  which  we  have  hitherto  felt,  not  so  much 
to  its  greater  size  as  compared  with  other  Gothic  build- 
ings, or  nobler  design  (for  it  never  yet  has  been  rightly 
drawn),  as  to  its  comparative  isolation.  The  other  Gothic 
structures  are  as  much  injured  by  the  continual  juxtaposition 
of  the  Renaissance  palaces,  as  the  latter  are  aided  by  it; 
they  exhaust  their  own  life  by  breathing  it  into  the  Renais- 

10— Vol.  3 


280  THE    DUCAL   PALACE. 

sance  coldness  :  but  the  Ducal  Palace  stands  comparatively 
alone,  and  fully  expresses  the  Gothic  power.   .   .   . 

The  Ducal  Palace,  which  was  the  great  work  of  Venice, 
was  built  successively  in  the  three  styles.  There  was  a 
Byzantine  Ducaf  Palace,  a  Gothic  Ducal  Palace,  and  a 
Renaissance  Ducal  Palace.  The  second  superseded  the  first 
totally ;  a  few  stones  of  it  (if  indeed  so  much)  are  all  that 
is  left.  But  the  third  superseded  the  second  in  part  only,  and 
the  existing  building  is  formed  by  the  union  of  the  two. 

We  shall  review  the  history  of  each  in  succession, 
ist.    The  Byzantine  Palace. 

The  year  of  the  death  of  Charlemagne,  813, — the 
Venetians  determined  to  make  the  island  of  Rialto  the 
seat  of  the  government  and  capital  of  their  state.  Their 
Doge,  Angelo  or  Agnello  Participazio,  instantly  took 
vigorous  means  for  the  enlargement  of  the  small  group 
of  buildings  which  were  to  be  the  nucleus  of  the  future 
Venice.  He  appointed  persons  to  superintend  the  rising 
of  the  banks  of  sand,  so  as  to  form  more  secure  founda- 
tions, and  to  build  wooden  bridges  over  the  canals.  For  the 
offices  of  religion  he  built  the  Church  of  St.  Mark ;  and  on, 
or  near,  the  spot  where  the  Ducal  Palace  now  stands,  he 
built  a  palace  for  the  administration  of  the  government. 

The  history  of  the  Ducal  Palace  therefore  begins  with 
the  birth  of  Venice,  and  to  what  remains  of  it,  at  this  day, 
is  entrusted  the  last  representation  of  her  power.   .   .  . 

In  the  year  1106,  it  was  for  the  second  time  injured  by 
fire,  but  repaired  before  11 16,  when  it  received  another 
emperor  Henry  V.  (of  Germany),  and  was  again  honoured 
by  imperial  praise.     Between   11 73  and  the  close  of  the 


THE   DUCAL   PALACE.  28l 

century,  it  seems  to   have  been  again  repaired  and  much 
enlarged   by  the  Doge  Sebastian  Ziani.  .  .  . 
2nd.    The  Gothic  Palace. 

The  reader,  doubtless,  recollects  that  the  important 
change  in  the  Venetian  government  which  gave  stability 
to  the  aristocratic  power  took  place  about  the  year  1297, 
under  the  Doge  Pietro  Gradenigo,  a  man  thus  charac- 
terized by  Sansovino  :  —  "A  prompt  and  prudent  man, 
of  unconquerable  determination  and  great  eloquence,  who 
laid,  so  to  speak,  the  foundations  of  the  eternity  of  this 
republic,  by  the  admirable  regulations  which  he  introduced 
into  the  government."   .   .   . 

We  accordingly  find  it  recorded  by  Sansovino,  that  "  in 
1 30 1  another  saloon  was  begun  on  the  Rio  del  Palazzo 
under  the  Doge  Gradenigo,  and  finished  in  1309,  in  which 
year  the  Grand  Council  first  sat  in  it"  In  the  first  year, 
therefore,  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  the  Gothic  Ducal 
Palace  of  Venice  was  begun  ;  and  as  the  Byzantine  Palace, 
was,  in  its  foundation,  coeval  with  that  of  the  state,  so  the 
Gothic  Palace,  was,  in  its  foundation,  coeval  with  that  of 
the  aristocratic  power.  Considered  as  the  principal  repre- 
sentation of  the  Venetian  school  of  architecture,  the  Ducal 
Palace  is  the  Parthenon  of  Venice,  and  Gradenigo  its 
Pericles.   .   .   . 

Its  decorations  and  fittings,  however,  were  long  in  com- 
pletion ;  the  paintings  on  the  roof  being  only  executed 
in  1400.  They  represented  the  heavens  covered  with 
stars,  this  being,  says  Sansovino,  the  bearings  of  the  Doge 
Steno.  .  .  .  The  Grand  Council  sat  in  the  finished  chamber 
for  the  first  time  in  1423.     In  that  year  the  Gothic  Ducal 


282  THE   DUCAL   PALACE. 

Palace  of  Venice  was  completed.     It  had  taken,  to  build 
it,  the  energies  of  the  entire  period  which  I  have  above 
described  as  the  central  one  of  her  life. 
3rd.    The  Renaissance  Palace. 

I  must  go  back  a  step  or  two,  in  order  to  be  certain 
that  the  reader  understands  clearly  the  state  of  the  palace 
in  1423.  The  works  of  addition  or  renovation  had  now 
been  proceeding,  at  intervals,  during  a  space  of  a  hundred 
and  twenty-three  years.  Three  generations  at  least  had 
been  accustomed  to  witness  the  gradual  advancement  of 
the  form  of  the  Ducal  Palace  into  more  stately  symmetry, 
and  to  contrast  the  works  of  sculpture  and  painting  with 
which  it  was  decorated,  —  full  of  the  life,  knowledge,  and 
hope  of  the  Fourteenth  Century,  —  with  the  rude  Byzan- 
tine chiselling  of  the  palace  of  the  Doge  Ziani.  The 
magnificent  fabric  just  completed,  of  which  the  new 
Council  Chamber  was  the  nucleus,  was  now  habitually 
known  in  Venice  as  the  "  Palazzo  Nuovo  ;  "  and  the  old 
Byzantine  edifice,  now  ruinous,  and  more  manifest  in  its 
decay  by  its  contrast  with  the  goodly  stones  of  the  build- 
ing which  had  been  raised  at  its  side,  was  of  course  known 
as  the  "  Palazzo  Vecchio."  That  fabric,  however,  still 
occupied  the  principal  position  in  Venice.  The  new 
Council  Chamber  had  been  erected  by  the  side  of  it 
towards  the  Sea ;  but  there  was  not  the  wide  quay  in 
front,  the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni,  which  now  renders  the 
Sea  Facade  as  important  as  that  of  the  Piazzetta.  There 
was  only  a  narrow  walk  between  the  pillars  and  the  water; 
and  the  old  palace  of  Ziani  still  faced  the  Piazzetta,  and 
interrupted,   by   its    decrepitude,   the   magnificence   of  the 


THE   DUCAL    PALACE.  283 

square  where  the  nobles  daily  met.  Every  increase  of 
the  beauty  of  the  new  palace  rendered  the  discrepancy 
between  it  and  the  companion  building  more  painful ;  and 
then  began  to  arise  in  the  minds  of  all  men  a  vague  idea 
of  the  necessity  of  destroying  the  old  palace,  and  completing 
the  front  of  the  Piazzetta  with  the  same  splendour  as  the 
Sea  Facade.  .  .  .  The  Great  Council  Chamber  was  used 
for  the  first  time  on  the  day  when  Foscari  entered  the 
Senate  as  Doge, — the  3rd  of  April,  1423,  .  .  .  and  the 
following  year,  on  the  27th  of  March,  the  first  hammer 
was   lifted   up  against  the  old  palace  of  Ziani. 

That  hammer  stroke  was  the  first  act  of  the  period 
properly  called  the  "  Renaissance."  It  was  the  knell  of 
the  architecture  of  Venice, —  and  of  Venice  herself.   .   .   . 

The  whole  work  must  have  been  completed  towards 
the  middle  of  the  Sixteenth  Century.  .  .  .  But  the  palace 
was  not  long  permitted  to  remain  in  this  finished  form. 
Another  terrific  fire,  commonly  called  the  great  fire,  burst 
out  in  1574,  and  destroyed  the  inner  fittings  and  all  the 
precious  pictures  of  the  Great  Council  Chamber,  and  of 
all  the  upper  rooms  on  the  Sea  Facade,  and  most  of  those 
on  the  Rio  Facade,  leaving  the  building  a  mere  shell, 
shaken  and  blasted  by  the  flames.  .  .  .  The  repairs  neces- 
sarily undertaken  at  this  time  were  however  extensive,  and 
interfere  in  many  directions  with  the  earlier  work  of  the 
palace  :  still  the  only  serious  alteration  in  its  form  was 
the  transposition  of  the  prisons,  formerly  at  the  top  of 
the  palace,  to  the  other  side  of  the  Rio  del  Palazzo  ;  and  the 
building  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  to  connect  them  with  the 
palace,  by  Antonio  da  Ponte.  The  completion  of  this  work 
brought  the  whole  edifice  into  its  present  form.   .  .  . 


284  THE   DUCAL   PALACE. 

The  traveller  in  Venice  ought  to  ascend  into  the  cor- 
ridor, and  examine  with  great  care  the  series  of  capitals 
which  extend  on  the  Piazzetta  side  from  the  Fig-tree 
angle  to  the  pilaster  which  carries  the  party  wall  of  the 
Sala  del  Gran  Consiglio.  As  examples  of  graceful  com- 
position in  massy  capitals  meant  for  hard  service  and 
distant  effect,  these  are  among  the  finest  things  I  know 
in  Gothic  Art ;  and  that  above  the  fig-tree  is  remarkable 
for  its  sculptures  of  the  four  winds  ;  each  on  the  side 
turned  towards  the  wind  represented.  Levante,  the  east 
wind ;  a  figure  with  rays  round  its  head,  to  show  that  it 
is  always  clear  weather  when  that  wind  blows,  raising  the 
sun  out  of  the  sea  :  Hotro,  the  south  wind  ;  crowned, 
holding  the  sun  in  its  right  hand  :  Ponente,  the  west 
wind;  plunging  the  sun  into  the  sea:  and  Tramontana, 
the  north  wind ;  looking  up  at  the  north  star.  This 
capital  should  be  carefully  examined,  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  attach  greater  distinctness  of  idea  to  the  magnifi- 
cent verbiage  of  Milton  : 

"  Thwart  of  these,  as  fierce, 
Forth  rush  the  Levant  and  the  Ponent  winds, 
Eurus,  and  Zephyr;  with  their  lateral  noise, 
Sirocco  and  Libecchio." 

I  may  also  especially  point  out  the  bird  feeding  its  three 
young  ones  on  the  seventh  pillar  on  the  Piazzetta  side ; 
but  there  is  no  end  to  the  fantasy  of  these  sculptures ;  and 
the  traveller  ought  to  observe  them  all  carefully,  until  he 
comes  to  the  great  pilaster  or  complicated  pier  which  sus- 
tains the  party  wall  of  the  Sala  del  Consiglio ;  that  is  to 
say,  the  forty-seventh  capital  of  the  whole  series,  counting 


THE   DUCAL   PALACE.  285 

from  the  pilaster  of  the  Vine  angle  inclusive,  as  in  the 
series  of  the  lower  arcade.  The  forty-eighth,  forty-ninth, 
and  fiftieth  are  bad  work,  but  they  are  old  ;  the  fifty-first 
is  the  first  Renaissance  capital  of  the  lower  arcade;  the 
first  new  lion's  head  with  smooth  ears,  cut  in  the  time 
of  Foscari,  is  over  the  fiftieth  capital ;  and  that  capital, 
with  its  shaft,  stands  on  the  apex  of  the  eighth  arch  from 
the  Sea,  on  the  Piazzetta  side,  of  which  one  spandril  is 
masonry  of  the  Fourteenth  and  the  other  of  the  Fifteenth 
Century.   .   .   . 

I  can  only  say  that,  in  the  winter  of  1851  the  "Para- 
dise "  of  Tintoret  was  still  comparatively  uninjured,  and 
that  the  Camera  di  Collegio,  and  its  antechamber,  and 
the  Sala  de'  Pregadi  were  full  of  pictures  by  Veronese 
and  Tintoret,  that  made  their  walls  as  precious  as  so 
many  kingdoms,  so  precious  indeed,  and  so  full  of  majesty, 
that  sometimes  when  walking  at  evening  on  the  Lido, 
whence  the  great  chain  of  the  Alps,  crested  with  silver 
clouds,  might  be  seen  rising  above  the  front  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  I  used  to  feel  as  much  awe  in  gazing  on  the 
building  as  on  the  hills,  and  could  believe  that  God  had 
done  a  greater  work  in  breathing  into  the  narrowness 
of  dust  the  mighty  spirits  by  whom  its  haughty  walls  had 
been  raised,  and  its  burning  legends  written,  than  in  lift- 
ing the  rocks  of  granite  higher  than  the  clouds  of  heaven, 
and  veiling  them  with  their  various  mantle  of  purple 
flower  and  shadowy  pine. 

Stones  of  Venice  (London,  1851— '3), 


THE   MOSQUE   OF   CORDOVA. 

EDMONDO    DE   AMICIS. 

THE  Mosque  of  Cordova,  which  was  converted  into 
a  cathedral  when  the  Moors  were  expelled  but 
which  has,  notwithstanding,  always  remained  a  Mosque, 
was  built  on  the  ruins  of  the  primitive  cathedral  not  far 
from  the  Guadalquiver.  Abd-er-Rahman  began  to  build 
it  in  the  year  785  or  786.  "Let  us  build  a  Mosque," 
said  he,  "  which  will  surpass  that  of  Bagdad,  that  of 
Damascus,  and  that  of  Jerusalem,  which  shall  be  the 
greatest  temple  of  Islam  and  become  the  Mecca  of  the 
Occident."  The  work  was  begun  with  ardour;  and 
Christian  slaves  were  made  to  carry  the  stones  of  razed 
churches  for  its  foundation.  Abd-er-Rahman,  himself, 
worked  an  hour  every  day  ;  in  a  few  years  the  Mosque 
was  built,  the  Caliphs  who  succeeded  Abd-er-Rahman 
embellished  it,  and  it  was  completed  after  a  century  of 
continuous  labour. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  one  of  my  hosts,  as  we  suddenly 
stopped  before  a  vast  edifice.  I  thought  it  was  a  fortress ; 
but  it  was  the  wall  that  surrounded  the  Mosque,  in  which 
formerly  opened  twenty  large  bronze  doors  surrounded  by 
graceful  arabesques  and  arched  windows  supported  by  Jight 
columns ;  it  is  now  covered  with  a  triple  coat  of  plaster. 


THE   MOSQUE   OF    CORDOVA.  287 

A  trip  around  the  boundary-wall  is  a  nice  little  walk  after 
dinner :  you  can  judge  then  of  the  extent  of  the  building. 

The  principal  door  of  this  enclosure  is  at  the  north,  on 
the  spot  where  Abd-er-Rahman's  minaret  rose,  from  whose 
summit  fluttered  the  Mohammedan  standard  ;  I  expected 
to  see  the  interior  of  the  Mosque  at  once,  and  I  found 
myself  in  a  garden  full  of  orange-trees,  cypresses,  and 
palms,  enclosed  on  three  sides  by  a  very  light  portico,  and 
shut  in  on  the  fourth  side  by  the  facade  of  the  Mosque. 
In  the  time  of  the  Arabs  there  was  a  fountain  in  the  centre 
for  their  ablutions,  and  the  faithful  gathered  under  the 
shade  of  these  trees  before  entering  the  temple.  I  remained 
there  for  some  moments  looking  around  me  and  breathing 
the  fresh  and  perfumed  air  with  a  very  lively  sensation  ; 
my  heart  was  beating  rapidly  at  the  thought  of  being  so 
near  the  famous  Mosque,  and  I  felt  myself  impelled  with 
a  great  curiosity  and  yet  held  back  by  an  indescribable 
childish  trembling.  "  Let  us  go  in  !  "  said  my  companions. 
u  Another  moment  !  "  I  replied.  "  Let  me  taste  the 
pleasure  of  anticipation."  Finally  I  stepped  forward,  and 
without  glancing  at  the  marvellous  door,  which  my  com- 
panions showed  me,  I  entered. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  did,  or  said  when  I  entered  ;  but 
certainly  some  strange  exclamation  must  have  escaped  me, 
or  I  must  have  made  some  extraordinary  gesture,  for  several 
people  who  were  near  me  at  that  moment  began  to  laugh 
and  turned  around  to  look  about  them,  as  if  they  wanted 
to  discover  what  caused  the  excitement  I  manifested. 

Imagine  a  forest,  and  imagine  that  you  are  in  the  depths 
of  this  forest,  and  that  you  can  see  nothing  but  the  trunks 


288  THE   MOSQUE   OF   CORDOVA. 

of  the  trees.  Thus,  no  matter  on  what  side  of  the  Mosque 
you  look,  the  eye  sees  nothing  but  columns.  It  is  a  limit- 
less forest  of  marble.  Your  glance  wanders  down  the  long 
rows  of  columns,  one  by  one,  which  every  now  and  then 
are  intersected  by  other  interminable  rows,  until  it  reaches 
a  twilight  background  where  you  seem  to  see  the  white 
gleam  of  still  other  columns.  Nineteen  naves  extend  be- 
fore the  visitor ;  they  are  intersected  by  thirty-three  other! 
naves,  and  the  whole  building  is  supported  by  more  than 
nine  hundred  columns  of  porphyry,  jasper,  breccia^  and 
marbles  of  every  colour.  The  central  nave,  much  larger 
than  the  others,  leads  to  the  Maksurah,  the  most  sacred 
spot  in  the  temple,  where  they  read  the  Koran.  A  pale 
ray  of  light  falls  from  the  high  windows  here  and  shines 
upon  a  row  of  columns  ;  beyond,  there  is  a  dark  spot ; 
and,  still  further  away,  another  ray  of  light  illuminates 
another  nave.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  »the  mystical 
feeling  and  admiration  that  this  sight  evokes  in  your  soul. 
It  is  like  the  sudden  revelation  of  an  unknown  religion, 
nature,  and  life,  which  carries  your  imagination  to  the 
delights  of  that  Paradise,  so  full  of  love  and  voluptuous- 
ness, where  the  blessed  ones  seated  under  the  shadow  of 
thick-leaved  plane-trees  and  thornless  rose-bushes  drink 
from  crystal  vases  that  wine,  sparkling  like  jewels,  which 
is  mixed  by  immortal  virgins,  and  sleep  in  the  arms  of 
houris  with  large  black  eyes.  All  these  pictures  of  eternal 
pleasure,  which  the  Koran  promises  to  the  faithful,  rush 
upon  the  mind  at  this  first  sight  of  the  Mosque  in  such  a 
vital,  intense,  and  bewildering  manner  that  for  an  instant 
they  give  you  a  sweet  intoxication  which  leaves  your  heart 


THE  MOSQUE   OF   CORDOVA.  289 

in  a  state  of  indescribable  and  gentle  melancholy.  Con- 
fusion in  the  mind  and  a  rushing  fire  through  the  veins  — 
that  is  your  first  sensation  on  entering  the  Cathedral  of 
Cordova. 

We  begin  to  wander  from  nave  to  nave,  observing  every- 
thing in  detail.  What  variety  there  is  in  this  edifice,  which 
seemed  all  alike  at  the  first  glance !  The  proportions  of 
the  columns,  the  designs  of  the  capitals  and  the  forms  of 
the  arches,  change,  so  to  speak,  at  every  step  you  take. 
Most  of  the  columns  are  ancient  and  were  brought  by  the 
Arabs  from  Northern  Spain,  Gaul,  and  Roman  Africa ; 
and  some  of  them,  it  is  said,  belonged  to  a  temple  of  Janus 
on  whose  ruins  was  built  the  church  which  the  Arabs 
destroyed  in  order  to  erect  this  Mosque.  On  many  of 
the  capitals  you  can  still  distinguish  the  cross,  which  was 
carved  upon  them  and  which  the  Arabs  erased  with  their 
chisels.  In  some  of  the  columns  pieces  of  curved  iron  are 
fixed,  to  which  it  is  said  the  Arabs  chained  the  Christians  ; 
one,  particularly,  is  exhibited,  to  which,  according  to 
popular  tradition,  a  Christian  was  chained  for  many  long 
years,  and  during  this  time  he  dug  at  the  stone  with  his 
nails  to  make  a  cross,  which  the  guides  show  you  with 
deep  veneration. 

We  stood  before  the  Maksura,  the  most  complete  and 
marvellous  example  of  Arabian  Art  of  the  Tenth  Century. 
There  are  three  adjacent  chapels  in  front  of  it,  with 
vaulted  ceilings  of  dentelated  arches  and  walls  covered  with 
superb  mosaics  in  the  form  of  large  bunches  of  flowers 
and  inscriptions  from  the  Koran.  The  principal  Mihrab, 
the   holy  place  where  the  spirit  of  God  dwells,  is  at  the 


290        THE  MOSQUE  OF  CORDOVA. 

back  of  the  central  chapel.  It  is  a  niche  with  an  octa- 
gon base  and  arched  at  the  top  by  an  enormous  shell  of 
marble.  In  the  Mihrab,  and  fastened  on  a  stool  of  aloe- 
wood,  was  kept  the  Koran,  copied  by  the  hand  of  the 
Caliph  Othman,  covered  with  gold  and  ornamented  with 
pearls;  and  the  faithful  made  the  tour  of  it  seven  times 
on  their  knees.  On  approaching  the  wall,  I  felt  the  pave- 
ment sink  under  my  feet  :  the  marble  is  hollowed  out  ! 

Coming  out  of  the  niche,  I  stopped  for  a  long  time  to 
look  at  the  ceiling  and  the  walls  of  the  principal  church, 
the  only  portion  of  the  Mosque  which  is  almost  intact.  It 
is  a  dazzling  array  of  crystal  of  a  thousand  colours,  an 
interlacing  of  arabesques  which  confounds  the  imagination, 
a  complication  of  bas-reliefs,  of  gold-work,  of  ornaments, 
and  of  details  of  design  and  hues  of  a  delicacy,  a  grace, 
and  a  perfection  to  drive  the  most  patient  painter  to 
despair.  It  is  impossible  to  recall  clearly  that  prodigious 
work ;  you  might  return  a  hundred  times  to  look  at  it, 
yet  it  would  only  be  remembered  as  an  aggregation  of 
blue,  red,  green,  golden,  and  luminous  points,  or  a  com- 
plicated embroidery  whose  patterns  and  colours  are  con- 
tinually changing.  Such  a  miracle  of  art  could  only 
emanate  from  the  fiery  and  indefatigable  imagination  of 
the  Arabs. 

Again  we  wandered  about  the  Mosque,  examining  here 
and  there  on  the  walls  the  arabesques  of  the  ancient  doors, 
of  which  you  get  glimpses  from  beneath  the  detestable 
Christian  paint.  My  companions  looked  at  me,  laughed, 
and  whispered  to  each   other. 

"  You  have  not  seen  it  yet  ?  "  asked  one. 


THE   MOSQUE   OF   CORDOVA.  291 

«  What  ?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  again  and  smiled. 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  seen    the   entire   Mosque  ? " 
said  the  one  who  had  first  spoken. 

"  I  ?     Yes,"  I  replied,  looking  around  me. 

"  Well,  you  have  not  seen  it  all :  what  remains  to  be 
seen  is  a  church — nothing  more!" 

"  A  church  !  "   I  cried,  stupefied,  "  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  Look  !  "  said  the  other   companion,   pointing   it   out, 
"  it   is  in   the  very   centre  of  the  Mosque." 

"  Good  heavens  !      And  I  had  not  noticed  it  at  all  !  " 

By  that  you  may  judge  of  the  size  of  the  Mosque. 
We  went  to  see  the  church.  It  is  very  beautiful  and 
very  rich,  with  a  magnificent  high  altar  and  a  choir  worthy 
of  ranking  with  those  of  Burgos  and  Toledo ;  but,  like  all 
things  which  do  not  harmonize  with  their  surroundings, 
it  annoys  you  instead  of  exciting  your  admiration.  Even 
Charles  V.,  who  gave  the  Chapter  permission  to  build  it 
here,  repented  when  he  saw  the  Mussulman  temple.  Next 
to  the  church  there  is  a  kind  of  Arabian  chapel,  admirably 
preserved  and  rich  in  mosaics  not  less  beautiful  and  varied 
than  those  of  the  Maksura  ;  it  is  said  that  the  doctors  of 
this  religion  met  there  to  read  the  Book  of  the  Prophet. 
Such  is  the  Mosque  of  to-day. 

What  must  it  have  been  in  the  time  of  the  Arabs  !  It 
was  not  enclosed  then  by  a  surrounding  wall,  but  it  was 
open  in  such  a  way  that  the  garden  could  be  seen  from 
every  one  of  its  parts,  while  from  the  garden  you  could 
see  the  entire  length  of  the  long  naves,  and  the  breeze 
carried  the  perfume  from  the  orange-trees  and  flowers  to 


292  THE   MOSQUE   OF   CORDOVA. 

the  very  arches  of  the  Maksura.  Of  the  columns,  which 
to-day  number  less  than  a  thousand,  there  were  fourteen 
hundred  j  the  ceiling  was  of  cedar  and  larch  sculptured 
and  incrusted  with  the  most  delicate  work ;  the  walls  were 
of  marble ;  the  light  of  eight  hundred  lamps  filled  with 
perfumed  oil  made  the  crystals  in  the  mosaics  sparkle  like 
diamonds  and  caused  a  marvellous  play  of  colour  and 
reflection  on  the  floor,  on  the  arches,  and  on  the  walls. 
"  An  ocean  of  splendours,"  a  poet  said,  "  filled  this  mys- 
terious enclosure,  the  balmy  air  was  impregnated  with 
aromas,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  faithful  strayed  until  they 
became  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  columns  which  glimmered 
like  lances  in  the  sunlight." 

La  Spagna  (Florence,  1873). 


THE    CATHEDRAL  OF  THRONDTJEM. 

AUGUSTUS  J.    C.   HARE. 

ON  July  25  we  left  Kristiania  for  Throndtjem — the 
whole  journey  of  three  hundred  and  sixty  miles  be- 
ing very  comfortable,  and  only  costing  thirty  francs.  The 
route  has  no  great  beauty,  but  endless  pleasant  variety  —  rail 
to  Eidswold,  with  bilberries  and  strawberries  in  pretty  birch- 
bark  baskets  for  sale  at  all  the  railway  stations  ;  a  vibrating 
steamer  for  several  hours  on  the  long,  dull  Miosem  lake; 
railway  again,  with  some  of  the  carriages  open  at  the  sides ; 
then  an  obligatory  night  at  Koppang,  a  large  station,  where 
accommodation  is  provided  for  every  one,  but  where,  if  there 
are  many  passengers,  several  people,  strangers  to  each  other, 
are  expected  to  share  the  same  room.  On  the  second  day 
the  scenery,  improves,  the  railway  sometimes  running  along 
and  sometimes  over  the  river  Glommen  on  a  wooden  cause- 
way, till  the  gorge  of  mountains  opens  beyond  Storen,  into 
a  rich  country  with  turfy  mounds  constantly  reminding  us 
of  the  graves  of  the  hero-gods  of  Upsala.  Towards  sunset, 
beyond  the  deep  cleft  in  which  the  river  Nid  runs  between 
lines  of  old  painted  wooden  warehouses,  rises  the  burial 
place  of  S.  Olaf,  the  shrine  of  Scandinavian  Christianity, 
the  stumpy-towered  Cathedral  of  Throndtjem.  The  most 
northern  railway  station,  and  the  most  northern  cathedral  in 
Europe. 


294  THE   CATHEDRAL   OF  THRONDTJEM. 

Surely  the  cradle  of  Scandinavian  Christianity  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  places  in  the  world  !  No  one  had  ever 
told  us  about  it,  and  we  went  there  only  because  it  is  the 
old  Throndtjem  of  sagas  and  ballads,  and  expecting  a  wonder- 
ful and  beautiful  cathedral. 

But  the  whole  place  is  a  dream  of  loveliness,  so  exquisite 
in  the  soft  silvery  morning  light  on  the  fyord  and  delicate 
mountain  ranges,  the  rich  nearer  hills  covered  with  bilberries 
and  breaking  into  steep  cliffs  — that  one  remains  in  a  state  of 
transport,  which  is  at  a  climax  while  all  is  engraven  upon  an 
opal  sunset  sky,  when  an  amethystine  glow  spreads  over  the 
mountains,  and  when  ships  and  buildings  meet  their  double 
in  the  still  transparent  water.  Each  wide  street  of  curious 
low  wooden  houses  displays  a  new  vista  of  sea,  of  rocky 
promontories,  of  woods  dipping  into  the  water ;  and  at  the 
end  of  the  principal  street  is  the  grey  massive  Cathedral 
where  S.  Olaf  is  buried,  and  where  northern  art  and  poetry 
have  exhausted  their  loveliest  and  most  pathetic  fancies 
around  the  grave  of  the  national  hero. 

The  "  Cathedral  Garden,"  for  so  the  graveyard  is  called, 
is  most  touching.  Acres  upon  acres  of  graves  are  all  kept 
—  not  by  officials,  but  by  the  families  they  belong  to  —  like 
gardens.  The  tombs  are  embowered  in  roses  and  honey- 
suckle, and  each  little  green  mound  has  its  own  vase  for  cut 
flowers  daily  replenished,  and  a  seat  for  the  survivors,  which 
is  daily  occupied,  so  that  the  link  between  the  dead  and  the 
living  is  never  broken. 

Christianity  was  first  established  in  Norway  at  the  end  of 
the  Tenth  Century  by  King  Olaf  Trygveson,  son  of  Trygve 
and  of  the  lady  Astrida,  whose  romantic  adventures,  when 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  THRONDTJEM.    295 

sold  as  a  slave  after  her  husband's  death,  are  the  subject 
of  a  thousand  stories.  When  Olaf  succeeded  to  the  throne 
of  Norway  after  the  death  of  Hako,  son  of  Sigurd,  in  996, 
he  proclaimed  Christianity  throughout  his  dominions,  heard 
matins  himself  daily,  and  sent  out  missionaries  through  his 
dominions.  But  the  duty  of  the  so-called  missionaries  had 
little  to  do  with  teaching,  they  were  only  required  to  baptize. 
All  who  refused  baptism  were  tortured  and  put  to  death. 
When,  at  one  time,  the  estates  of  the  province  of  Throndtjem 
tried  to  force  Olaf  back  to  the  old  religion,  he  outwardly 
assented,  but  made  the  condition  that  the  offended  pagan 
deities  should  in  that  case  be  appeased  by  human  sacrifice  — 
the  sacrifice  of  the  twelve  nobles  who  were  most  urgent  in 
compelling  him ;  and  upon  this  the  ardour  of  the  chieftains 
for  paganism  was  cooled,  and  they  allowed  Olaf  unhindered 
to  demolish  the  great  statue  of  Thor,  covered  with  gold  and 
jewels,  in  the  centre  of  the  province  of  Throndtjem,  where 
he  founded  the  city  then  called  Nidaros,  upon  the  river 
Nid.   .   .   . 

Olaf  Trygveson  had  a  godson  Olaf,  son  of  Harald 
Grenske  and  Asta,  who  had  the  nominal  title  of  king  given 
to  all  sea  captains  of  royal  descent.  From  his  twelfth  year, 
Olaf  Haraldsen  was  a  pirate,  and  he  headed  the  band  of 
Danes  who  destroyed  Canterbury  and  murdered  S.  Elphege 
—  a  strange  feature  in  the  life  of  one  who  has  been  himself 
regarded  as  a  saint  since  his  death.  By  one  of  the  strange 
freaks  of  fortune  common  in  those  times,  this  Olaf  Harald- 
sen gained  a  great  victory  over  the  chieftain  Sweyn,  who 
then  ruled  at  Nidaros,  and,  chiefly  through  the  influence  of 
Sigurd  Syr,  a  great  northern  landowner,  who  had  become 


296  THE   CATHEDRAL  OF   THRONDTJEM. 

the  second  husband  of  his  mother,  he  became  seated  in  10 16 
upon  the  throne  of  Norway.  His  first  care  was  for  the 
restoration  of  Christianity,  which  had  fallen  into  decadence 
in  the  sixteen  years  which  had  elapsed  since  the  defeat  of 
Olaf  Trygveson.  The  second  Olaf  imitated  the  violence 
and  cruelty  of  his  predecessor.  Whenever  the  new  religion 
was  rejected,  he  beheaded  or  hung  the  delinquents.  In 
his  most  merciful  moments  he  mutilated  and  blinded  them: 
u  he  did  not  spare  one  who  refused  to  serve  God.".   .   . 

However  terrible  the  cruelties  of  Olaf  Haraldsen  were  in 
his  lifetime,  they  were  soon  dazzled  out  of  sight  amid  the 
'  halo  of  rriracles  with  which  his  memory  was  encircled  by 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church.   .   .  . 

It  was  when  the  devotion  to  S.  Olaf  was  just  beginning 
that  Earl  Godwin  and  his  sons  were  banished  from  Eng- 
land for  a  time.  Two  of  these,  Harold  and  Tosti,  became 
vikings,  and,  in  a  great  battle,  they  vowed  that  if  they  were 
victorious,  they  would  give  half  the  spoil  to  the  shrine  of  S. 
Olaf;  and  a  huge  silver  statue,  which  they  actually  gave, 
existed  at  Throndtjem  till  1500,  and  if  it  existed  still  would 
be  one  of  the  most  important  relics  in  archaeology.  The 
old  Kings  of  Norway  used  to  dig  up  the  saint  from  time  to 
time  and  cut  his  nails.  When  Harold  Hardrada  was  going 
to  England,  he  declared  that  he  must  see  S.  Olaf  once  again. 
"I  must  see  my  brother  once  more,"  he  said,  and  he  also  cut 
the  saint's  nails.  But  he  also  thought  that  from  that 
time  it  would  be  better  that  no  one  should  see  his  brother 
any  more  —  it  would  not  be  for  the  good  of  the  Church  — 
so  he  took  the  keys  of  the  shrine  and  threw  them  into  the 
fyord ;  at  the  same  time,  he  said,  it  would  be  good  for  men 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  THRONDTJEM.    297 

in  after  ages  to  know  what  a  great  king  was  like,  so  he 
caused  S.  Olaf's  measure  to  be  engraved  upon  the  wall  in 
the  church  at  Throndtjem  —  his  measure  of  seven  feet  — 
and  there  it  is  still. 

Around  the  shrine  of  Olaf  in  Throndtjem,  in  which,  in 
spite  of  Harald  Hardrada,  his  "  incorrupt  body  "  was  seen 
more  than  five  hundred  years  after  his  death,  has  arisen  the 
most  beautiful  of  northern  cathedrals,  originating  in  a  small 
chapel  built  over  his  grave  within  ten  years  after  his  death. 
The  exquisite  colour  of  its  green-grey  stone  adds  greatly 
to  the  general  effect  of  the  interior,  and  to  the  delicate 
sculpture  of  its  interlacing  arches.  From  the  ambulatory 
behind  the  choir  opens  a  tiny  chamber  containing  the  Well 
of  S.  Olaf,  of  rugged  yellow  stone,  with  the  holes  remaining 
in  the  pavement  through  which  the  dripping  water  ran  away 
when  the  buckets  were  set  down.  Amongst  the  many 
famous  bishops  of  Throndtjem,  perhaps  the  most  celebrated 
has  been  Anders  Arrebo,  "  the  father  of  Danish  poetry  " 
(1 587-1637),  who  wrote  the  "  Hexameron,"  an  extraordi- 
narily long  poem  on  the  Creation,  which  nobody  reads  now. 
The  Cathedral  is  given  up  to  Lutheran  worship,  but  its 
ancient  relics  are  kindly  tended  and  cared  for,  and  the 
building  is  being  beautifully  restored.  Its  beautiful  Chapter 
House  is  lent  for  English  service  on  Sundays. 

Sketches  in  Holland  and  Scandinavia  (London,  1885). 


LEANING   TOWER   OF   PISA. 

CHARLES   DICKENS. 

FROM  the  summit  of  a  lofty  hill  beyond  Carrara, 
the  first  view  of  the  fertile  plain  in  which  the  town 
of  Pisa  lies  —  with  Leghorn  a  purple  spot  in  the  flat  dis- 
tance —  is  enchanting.  Nor  is  it  only  distance  that  lends 
enchantment  to  the  view ;  for  the  fruitful  country,  and 
rich  woods  of  olive-trees  through  which  the  road  subse- 
quently passes,  render  it  delightful. 

The  moon  was  shining  when  we  approached  Pisa,  and 
for  a  long  time  we  could  see,  behind  the  wall,  the  Lean- 
ing Tower,  all  awry  in  the  uncertain  light ;  the  shadowy 
original  of  the  old  pictures  in  school-books,  setting  forth 
"  The  Wonders  of  the  World."  Like  most  things  con- 
nected in  their  first  associations  with  school-books  and 
school-times,  it  was  too  small.  I  felt  it  keenly.  It  was 
nothing  like  so  high  above  the  wall  as  I  had  hoped.  It  was 
another  of  the  many  deceptions  practised  by  Mr.  Harris, 
Bookseller,  at  the  corner  of  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  Lon- 
don. His  Tower  was  a  fiction,  but  this  was  reality  —  and, 
by  comparison,  a  short  reality.  Still,  it  looked  very  well, 
and  very  strange,  and  was  quite  as  much  out  of  the 
perpendicular  as  Harris  had  represented  it  to  be.  The 
quiet  air  of  Pisa,  too ;  the  big  guard-house  at  the    gate, 


LEANING    TOWER    OF    PISA.  299 

with  only  two  little  soldiers  in  it ;  the  streets,  with  scarcely 
any  show  of  people  in  them ;  and  the  Arno,  flowing 
quaintly  through  the  centre  of  the  town  ;  were  excel- 
lent. So,  I  bore  no  malice  in  my  heart  against  Mr. 
Harris  (remembering  his  good  intentions),  but  forgave 
him  before  dinner,  and  went  out,  full  of  confidence,  to 
see  the  Tower  next  morning. 

I  might  have  known  better ;  but,  somehow,  I  had 
expected  to  see  it  casting  its  long  shadow  on  a  public 
street  where  people  came  and  went  all  day.  It  was  a 
surprise  to  me  to  find  it  in  a  grave,  retired  place,  apart 
from  the  general  resort,  and  carpeted  with  smooth  green 
turf.  But,  the  group  of  buildings  clustered  on  and  about 
this  verdant  carpet ;  comprising  the  Tower,  the  Baptistery, 
the  Cathedral,  and  the  Church  of  the  Campo  Santo ;  is 
perhaps  the  most  remarkable  and  beautiful  in  the  whole 
world ;  and,  from  being  clustered  there  together  away 
from  the  ordinary  transactions  and  details  of  the  town, 
they  have  a  singularly  venerable  and  impressive  character. 
It  is  the  architectural  essence  of  a  rich  old  city,  with  all 
its  common  life  and  common  habitations  pressed  out,  and 
filtered  away. 

Simond  compares  the  Tower  to  the  usual  pictorial 
representations  in  children's  books  of  the  Tower  of  Babel. 
It  is  a  happy  simile,  and  conveys  a  better  idea  of  the 
building  than  chapters  of  laboured  description.  Nothing 
can  exceed  the  grace  and  lightness  of  the  structure  ;  noth- 
ing can  be  more  remarkable  than  its  general  appearance. 
In  the  course  of  the  ascent  to  the  top  (which  is  by  an  easy 
staircase),  the  inclination  is  not  very  apparent ;  but,  at  the 


30O  LEANING    TOWER    OF    PISA. 

summit,  it  becomes  so,  and  gives  one  the  sensation  of 
being  in  a  ship  that  has  heeled  over,  through  the  action 
of  an  ebb  tide.  The  effect  upon  the  low  side,  so  to  speak  — 
looking  over  from  the  gallery,  and  seeing  the  shaft  recede 
to  its  base  —  is  very  startling  ;  and  I  saw  a  nervous  traveller 
hold  on  to  the  Tower  involuntarily,  after  glancing  down, 
as  if  he  had  some  idea  of  propping  it  up.  The  view  within, 
from  the  ground  —  looking  up,  as  through  a  slanted  tube 
—  is  also  very  curious.  It  certainly  inclines  as  much  as 
the  most  sanguine  tourist  could  desire.  The  natural  im- 
pulse of  ninety-nine  people  out  of  a  hundred,  who  were 
about  to  recline  upon  the  grass  below  it  to  rest,  and  con- 
template the  adjacent  buildings,  would  probably  be,  not 
to  take  up  their  position  under  the  leaning  side  j  it  is  so 
very   much  aslant. 

Pictures  from  Italy  (London,  1845). 


THE    ALHAMBRA. 

THEOPHILE   GAUTIER. 

HAVING  passed  through  the  gate,  you  enter  a  large 
square  called  Plaza  de  las  Algives  in  the  centre 
of  which  you  find  a  well  whose  curb  is  surrounded  by 
a  kind  of  wooden  shed  covered  with  spartium  matting 
and  where,  for  a  cuarto^  you  can  have  a  glass  of  water, 
as  clear  as  a  diamond,  as  cold  as  ice,  and  of  the  most 
delicious  flavour.  The  towers  of  Quebrada,  the  Homenaga, 
the  Armeria,  and  of  the  Vela,  whose  bell  announces  the 
hours  when  the  water  is  distributed,  and  stone-parapets, 
on  which  you  can  lean  to  admire  the  marvellous  view 
which  unfolds  before  you,  surround  one  side  of  the  square ; 
the  other  is  occupied  by  the  Palace  of  Charles  V.,  an 
immense  building  of  the  Renaissance,  which  you  would 
admire  anywhere  else,  but  which  you  curse  here  when 
you  remember  that  it  covers  a  space  once  occupied  by  a 
portion  of  the  Alhambra  which  was  pulled  down  to  make 
room  for  this  heavy  mass.  This  Alcazar  was,  however, 
designed  by  Alonzo  Berruguete ;  the  trophies,  the  bas- 
reliefs,  and  the  medallions  of  its  facade  have  been  accu- 
mulated by  means  of  a  proud,  bold,  and  patient  chisel; 
the  circular  court  with  its  marble  columns,  where,  in  all 


302  THE    ALHAMBRA. 

probability,  the  bull-fights  took  place,  is  certainly  a  mag- 
nificent piece  of  architecture,  but  non  erat  hie  locus. 

You  enter  the  Alhambra  through  a  corridor  situated  in 
an  angle  of  the  Palace  of  Charles  V.,  and,  after  several 
windings,  you  arrive  in  a  large  court,  designated  indif- 
ferently under  the  names  of  Patio  de  los  Arraynes  (Court  of 
Myrtles),  of  the  Alberca  (of  the  Reservoir),  or  of  the 
Mexouar  (an  Arabian  word  signifying  bath  for  women). 

When  you  issue  from  these  dark  passages  into  this 
large  space  flooded  with  light,  the  effect  is  similar  to  that 
produced  by  a  diorama.  You  can  almost  fancy  that  an 
enchanter's  wand  has  transported  you  to  the  Orient  of  four 
or  five  centuries  ago.  Time,  which  changes  everything  in 
its  flight,  has  altered  nothing  here,  where  the  apparition 
of  the  Sultana  Chaine  des  cceurs  and  of  the  Moor  Tarfe  in 
his  white  cloak  would  not  cause  the  least  surprise.   .   .   . 

The  antechamber  of  the  Hall  of  the  Ambassadors  is 
worthy  of  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  intended:  the 
boldness  of  its  arches,  the  variety  and  interlacing  of  its 
arabesques,  the  mosaics  of  its  walls,  and  the  work  on  its 
stuccoed  ceiling,  crowded  like  the  stalactite  roof  of  a  grotto 
and  painted  with  azure,  green,  and  red,  traces  of  which 
colours  are  still  visible,  produce  an  effect  both  charming 
and  bizarre. 

On  each  side  of  the  door  which  leads  to  the  Hall  of 
the  Ambassadors,  in  the  jamb  of  the  arch  itself  and  where 
the  facing  of  glazed  tiles,  whose  triangles  of  glaring  colours 
adorn  the  lower  portion  of  the  walls,  are  hollowed  out, 
like  little  chapels,  two  niches  of  white  marble  sculptured  , 
with  an  extreme  delicacy.     It  was  here  that  the  ancient 


THE    ALHAMBRA.  3°3 

Moors  left  their  Turkish  slippers  before  entering,  as  a 
mark  of  deference,  just  as  we  remove  our  hats  in  places 
that  demand  this  respect. 

The  Hall  of  the  Ambassadors,  one  of  the  largest  in 
the  Alhambra,  fills  the  whole  interior  of  the  tower  of 
Comares.  The  ceiling,  composed  of  cedar,  shows  those 
mathematical  combinations  so  common  to  the  Arabian 
architect :  all  the  bits  are  arranged  in  such  a  way  that  all 
their  converging  or  diverging  angles  form  an  infinite 
variety  of  designs  j  the  walls  disappear  under  a  network 
of  ornaments,  so  packed  together  and  so  inextricably 
interwoven  that  I  can  think  of  no  better  comparison  than 
pieces  of  lace  placed  one  above  the  other.  Gothic  archi- 
tecture, with  its  stone  lace-work  and  its  perforated  roses, 
cannot  compare  with  this.  Fish-slices  and  the  paper 
embroidery  cut  out  with  a  punch,  which  the  confectioners 
use  to  decorate  their  sweets,  can  alone  give  you  any  idea 
of  it.  One  of  the  characteristics  of  the  Moorish  style  is 
that  it  offers  very  few  projections  and  profiles.  All  the 
ornamentation  is  developed  on  flat  surfaces  and  is  hardly 
ever  more  than  four  or  five  inches  in  relief;  it  is  really 
like  a  kind  of  tapestry  worked  on  the  wall  itself.  One 
feature  in  particular  distinguishes  it  —  the  employment  of 
writing  as  a  motive  of  decoration  ;  it  is  true  that  Arabian 
letters,  with  their  mysteriously  winding  forms,  lend  them- 
selves remarkably  to  this  use.  The  inscriptions,  which 
are  almost  always  suras  of  the  Koran,  or  eulogies  to 
various  princes  who  have  built  and  decorated  these  halls, 
unfold  upon  the  friezes,  on  the  jambs  of  the  doors,  and 
round  the  arches  of  the  windows  interspersed  with  flowers, 


3°4  THE    ALHAMBRA. 

boughs,  network,  and  all  the  wealth  of  Arabian  caligraphy. 
Those  in  the  Halls  of  the  Ambassadors  signify  "  Glory  to 
God,  power  and  wealth  to  believers,"  or  consist  of  praises 
to  Abu  Nazar,  who,  "  if  he  had  been  taken  into  Heaven 
while  living,  would  have  diminished  the  brightness  of  the 
stars  and  planets,"  a  hyperbolical  assertion  which  seems 
to  us  a  little  too  Oriental. 

Other  bands  are  filled  with  eulogies  to  Abu  Abd  Allah, 
another  Sultan  who  ordered  work  upon  this  part  of  the 
Palace.  The  windows  are  bedizened  with  verses  in  honour 
of  the  limpid  waters  of  the  reservoir,  of  the  freshness  of  the 
shrubbery,  and  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  which  ornament 
the  Court  of  the  Mezouar,  which  in  fact  is  seen,  from  the 
Hall  of  the  Ambassadors  through  the  doors  and  little  col- 
umns of  the  gallery. 

The  loop-holes  of  the  interior  balcony,  pierced  at  a  great 
height  from  the  ground,  and  the  ceiling  of  wood-work, 
devoid  of  ornaments  except  the  zig-zags  and  the  interlac- 
ings  formed  by  the  joining  of  the  pieces,  give  the  Hall  of 
the  Ambassadors  a  more  severe  aspect  than  any  other  halls 
in  the  Palace,  and  more  in  harmony  with  its  purpose.  From 
the  back  window  you  can  enjoy  a  marvellous  view  over  the 
ravine  of  the  Darro.   .  .  . 

From  the  Hall  of  the  Ambassadors  you  go  down  a  cor- 
ridor of  relatively  modern  construction  to  the  tocador,  or 
dressing-room  of  the  queen.  This  is  a  small  pavilion  on 
the  top  of  a  tower  used  by  the  sultanas  as  an  oratory,  and 
from  which  you  can  enjoy  a  wonderful  panorama.  You 
notice  at  the  entrance  a  slab  of  white  marble  perforated 
with  little  holes  in  order  to  let  the  smoke  of  the  perfumes 


THE    ALHAMBRA.  3°5 

burned  beneath  the  floor  to  pass  through.     You  can  still 
see  on  the  walls  the  fantastic  frescoes  of  Bartholomew  de 
Ragis,  Alonzo  Perez,  and  Juan  de  la  Fuente.     Upon  the 
frieze  the  ciphers  of  Isabella  and  Philip  V.  are  intertwined 
with  groups  of  Cupids.     It  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything 
more   coquettish   and   charming   than  this   room,  with   its 
small  Moorish  columns  and  its  surbased  arches,  over-hang- 
ing an  abyss  of  azure,  the  bottom  of  which  is  studded  with 
the  roofs  of  Grenada  and  into  which  the  breeze  brings  the 
perfumes  from  the  Generalife,  —  that  enormous  cluster  of 
oleanders  blossoming  in  the  foreground  of  the  nearest  hill,  — 
and  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  peacocks  walking  upon  the  dis- 
mantled walls.      How  many  hours  have  I  passed  there  in 
that  serene  melancholy,  so  different  from  the  melancholy 
of  the  North,  with  one  leg  hanging  over  the  precipice  and 
charging  my  eyes  to  photograph  every  form  and  every  out- 
line  of   this   beautiful   picture  unfolded  before  them,   and 
which,  in   all   probability,  they   will  never    behold    again ! 
No  description  in  words,  or  colours,  can  give  the  slightest 
hint  of  this  brilliancy,  this  light,  and  these  vivid  tints.     The 
most  ordinary  tones  acquire  the  worth  of  jewels  and  every- 
thing else  is  on  a  corresponding  scale.     Towards  the  close 
of  day,  when  the  sun's  rays  are  oblique,  the  most  incon- 
ceivable effects  are  produced :  the  mountains  sparkle  like 
heaps  of  rubies,  topazes,  and  carbuncles ;    a   golden  dust 
bathes  the  ravines ;  and  if,  as  is  frequent  in  the  summer, 
the  labourers  are  burning  stubble  in  the  field,  the  wreaths 
of  smoke,  which  rise  slowly  towards   the  sky,  borrow  the 
most    magical    reflections    from    the    fires    of  the    setting 
sun.  .  .  . 


306  THE    ALHAMBRA. 

The  Court  of  Lions  is  120  feet  long  and  73  feet  wide, 
while  the  surrounding  galleries  do  not  exceed  20  feet  in 
height.  These  are  formed  by  128  columns  of  white  marble, 
arranged  in  a  symmetrical  disorder  of  groups  of  fours  and 
groups  of  threes ;  these  columns,  whose  highly-worked 
capitals  retain  traces  of  gold  and  colour,  support  arches 
of  extreme  elegance  and  of  a  very  unique  form.   .  .   . 

To  the  left  and  midway  up  the  long  side  of  the  gallery, 
you  come  to  the  Hall  of  the  Two  Sisters,  the  pendant  to  the 
Hall  of  the  Abencerrages.  The  name  of  las  Dos  Hermanas 
is  given  to  it  on  account  of  two  immense  flag-stones  of 
white  Macael  marble  of  equal  size  and  exactly  alike  which 
you  notice  at  once  in  the  pavement.  The  vaulted  roof,  or 
cupola,  which  the  Spanish  very  expressively  call  media 
naranja  (half  an  orange),  is  a  miracle  of  work  and  patience. 
It  is  something  like  a  honey-comb,  or  the  stalactites  of  a 
grotto,  or  the  soapy  grape-bubbles  which  children  blow 
through  a  pipe.  These  myriads  of  little  vaults,  or  domes, 
three  or  four  feet  high,  which  grow  out  of  one  another, 
intersecting  and  constantly  breaking  their  corners,  seem 
rather  the  product  of  fortuitous  crystallization  than  the  work 
of  human  hands ;  the  blue,  the  red,  and  the  green  still  shine 
in  the  hollows  of  the  mouldings  as  brilliantly  as  if  they  had 
just  been  laid  on.  The  walls,  like  those  in  the  Hall  of  the 
Ambassadors,  are  covered  from  the  frieze  to  the  height  of  a 
man  with  the  most  delicate  embroideries  in  stucco  and  of 
an  incredible  intricacy.  The  lower  part  of  the  walls  is 
faced  with  square  blocks  of  glazed  clay,  whose  black,  green, 
and  yellow  angles  form  a  mosaic  upon  the  white  back- 
ground.    The  centre  of  the  room,  according  to  the  inva- 


THE    ALHAMBRA.  307 

riable  custom  of  the  Arabs,  whose  habitations  seem  to  be 
nothing  but  great  ornamental  fountains,  is  occupied  by  a 
basin  and  a  jet  of  water.  There  are  four  fountains  under 
the  Gate  of  Justice,  as  many  under  the  entrance-gate,  and 
another  in  the  Hall  of  the  Abencerrages,  without  counting 
the  Taza  de  los  Leones,  which,  not  content  with  vomiting 
water  through  the  mouths  of  its  twelve  monsters,  tosses  a 
jet  towards  the  sky  through  the  mushroom-cap  which  sur- 
mounts it.  All  this  water  flows  through  small  trenches  in 
the  floors  of  the  hall  and  pavements  of  the  court  to  the  foot 
of  the  Fountain  of  Lions,  where  it  is  swallowed  up  in  a 
subterranean  conduit.  Certainly  this  is  a  species  of  dweil 
ing  which  would  never  be  incommoded  with  dust,  but  you 
ask  how  could  these  halls  have  been  tenanted  during  the 
winter.  Doubtless  the  large  cedar  doors  were  then  shut 
and  the  marble  floors  were  covered  with  thick  carpets, 
while  the  inhabitants  lighted  fires  of  fruit-stones  and  odo- 
riferous woods  in  the  braseros,  and  waited  for  the  return  of 
the  fine  season,  which  soon  comes  in  Grenada. 

We  will  not  describe  the  Hall  of  the  Abencerrages, 
which  is  precisely  like  that  of  the  Two  Sisters  and  contains 
nothing  in  particular  except  its  antique  door  of  wood, 
arranged  in  lozenges,  which  dates  from  the  time  of  the 
Moors.  In  the  Alcazar-  of  Seville  you  can  find  another 
one  of  exactly  the  same  style. 

The  Taza  de  los  Leones  enjoys  a  wonderful  reputation  in 
Arabian  poetry  :  no  eulogy  is  considered  too  extravagant 
for  these  superb  animals.  I  must  confess,  however,  that  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  anything  which  less  resembles  lions 
than  these  productions  of  Arabian  fantasy ;  the  paws  are 


308  THE    ALHAMBRA. 

simple  stakes  like  those  shapeless  pieces  of  wood  which  one 
thrusts  into  the  bellies  of  pasteboard  dogs  to  make  them 
keep  their  equilibrium ;  their  muzzles  streaked  with  trans- 
verse lines,  very  likely  intended  for  whiskers,  are  exactly 
like  the  snout  of  a  hippopotamus,  and  the  eyes  are  so  primi- 
tive in  design  that  they  recall  the  crude  attempts  of  children. 
However,  if  you  consider  these  twelve  monsters  as  chimerae 
and  not  lions,  and  as  a  fine  caprice  in  ornamentation,  pro- 
ducing in  combination  with  the  basin  they  support  a  pictur- 
esque and  elegant  effect,  you  will  then  understand  their 
reputation  and  the  praises  contained  in  this  Arabian  inscrip- 
tion of  twenty-four  verses  and  twenty-four  syllables  engraved 
on  the  sides  of  the  lower  basin  into  which  the  waters  fall 
from  the  upper  basin.  I  ask  the  reader's  pardon  for  the 
rather  barbarous  fidelity  of  the  translation  : 

"  O  thou,  who  lookest  upon  the  lions  fixed  in  their  place  .' 
remark  that  they  only  lack  life  to  be  perfect.  And  you  to  whom 
will  fall  the  inheritance  of  this  Alcazar  and  Kingdom,  take  them 
from  the  noble  hands  of  those  who  have  governed  them  without 
displeasure  and  resistance.  May  God  preserve  you  for  the  work, 
which  you  will  accomplish,  and  protect  you  forever  from  the 
vengeance  of  your  enemy  !  Honour  and  glory  be  thine,  O 
Mohammed  !  our  King,  endowed  with  the  high  virtues,  with 
whose  aid  thou  hast  conquered  everything.  May  God  never  per- 
mit this  beautiful  garden,  the  image  of  thy  virtues,  to  be  surpassed 
by  any  rival.  The  material  which  covers  the  substance  of  this 
basin  is  like  mother-of-pearl  beneath  the  shimmering  waters  j  this 
Sheet  of  water  is  like  melted  silver,  for  the  limpidity  of  the  water 
and  the  whiteness  of  the  stone  are  unequalled  ;  it  might  be  called 
a  drop  of  transparent  essence  upon  a  face  of  alabaster.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  follow   its  course.      Look  at  the  water  and  look 


THE    ALHAMBRA.  309 

at  the  basin,  and  you  will  not  be  able  to  tell  if  it  is  the  water 
that  is  motionless,  or  the  marble  which  ripples.  Like  the  prisoner 
of  love  whose  face  is  full  of  trouble  and  fear  when  under  the  gaze 
of  the  envious,  so  the  jealous  water  is  indignant  at  the  marble  and 
the  marble  is  envious  of  the  water.  To  this  inexhaustible  stream 
we  may  compare  the  hand  of  our  King  which  is  as  liberal  and 
generous  as  the  lion  is  strong  and  valiant." 

Into  the  basin  of  the  Fountain  of  Lions  fell  the  heads  of 
the  thirty-six  Abencerrages,  drawn  there  by  the  stratagem 
of  the  Zegris.  The  other  Abencerrages  would  have  shared 
the  same  fate  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  devotion  of  a  little 
page  who,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  ran  to  warn  the  sur- 
vivors from  entering  the  fatal  court.  Your  attention  will 
be  attracted  by  some  large  red  spots  at  the  bottom  of  the 
basin  —  an  indelible  accusation  left  by  the  victims  against 
the  cruelty  of  their  murderers.  Unfortunately,  the  learned 
declare  that  neither  the  Abencerrages  nor  the  Zegris 
existed.  Regarding  this  fact,  I  am  entirely  guided  by 
romances,  popular  traditions,  and  Chateaubriand's  novel, 
and  I  solemnly  believe  that  these  crimson  stains  are  blood 
and  not  rust. 

We  established  our  headquarters  in  the  Court  of  the 
Lions  ;  our  furniture  consisted  of  two  mattresses  which  were 
rolled  up  in  a  corner  during  the  day,  a  copper  lamp,  an 
earthenware  jar,  and  a  few  bottles  of  sherry  which  we  placed 
in  the  fountain  to  cool.  Sometimes  we  slept  in  the  Hall  of 
the  Two  Sisters,  and  sometimes  in  that  of  the  Abencerrages, 
and  it  was  not  without  some  slight  fear  that  I,  stretched 
out  upon  my  cloak,  looked  at  the  white  rays  of  the  moon 
which  fell  through  the  openings  of  the  roof  into  the  water 


3IO  THE    ALHAMBRA. 

of  the  basin  quite  astonished  to  mingle  with  the  yellow, 
trembling  flame  of  a  lamp. 

The  popular  traditions  collected  by  Washington  Irving 
in  his  Tales  of  the  Alhambra  came  into  my  memory ;  the 
story  of  the  Headless  Horse  and  of  the  Hairy  Phantom 
solemnly  related  by  Father  Echeverria  seemed  very  probable 
to  me,  especially  when  the  light  was  out.  The  truth  of 
legends  always  appears  much  greater  at  night  when  these 
dark  places  are  filled  with  weird  reflections  which  give  a 
fantastic  appearance  to  all  objects  of  a  vague  outline : 
Doubt  is  the  son  of  day,  Faith  is  the  daughter  of  the  night, 
and  it  astonishes  me  to  think  that  St.  Thomas  believed  in 
Christ  after  having  thrust  his  finger  into  his  wounds.  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  did  not  see  the  Abencerrages  walking  through 
the  moonlit  galleries  carrying  their  heads  under  their  arms  : 
anyhow  the  shadows  of  the  columns  always  assumed  forms 
that  were  diabolically  suspicious,  and  the  breeze  as  it  passed 
through  the  arches  made  me  wonder  if  it  was  not  a  human 
breath. 

Voyage  en  Espagne  (Paris,  new  ed.,  1865). 


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